


The Neutral Zone

by Soledad



Series: The Lost Voyages of the Next Generation [1]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Andorians, Book-Canon Romulan Culture and Language, F/M, Romulan Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-11 08:50:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11145024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: TheEnterpriseis ordered to the Romulan Neutral Zone on a highly confidential mission. Commander Billings, a high-ranking officer of Starfleet Command, is supposed to help them. But why does he insist that Worf should leave the ship, what other secrets is he hiding and what are the Romulans up to?Timeframe:late season 1. For continuity’s sake I assumed that the actual “Neutral Zone” episode (the last one of Season 1) took place before the episode “Conspiracy” (the penultimate one of the same season).This particular story is based on the similarly-titled story idea of Greg Strangis.





	1. The Living Legend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andorian Ambassador Charivretha zh’Thane is a character from the DS9 re-launch books.  
> Captain Javier Hajar is the father of Cadet Jean Hajar from the 5th season TNG-episode “The First Duty”. He is an original character of mine, “played” by French actor Renaud Marx. Commander Billings is “played” by Roy Scheider.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
**CHAPTER 01 – THE LIVING LEGEND**

**Captain’s Log, Stardate 41996.1  
** **Jean-Luc Picard recording  
After the close – too close – encounter with the alien parasites that had recently infiltrated the highest ranks of Starfleet Command, the _Enterprise_ has left Earth and is now heading towards Gorn space, where we are to assist with the debate about some disputed territory between the Gorn and their neighbours, the felinoid Kzinti. As both races are known for their aggressive, territorial nature and their tendency to shoot first and discuss the problem at hand later (if ever), the leader of the negotiations, Andorian Ambassador Charivretha zh’Thane had asked for a demonstration of power, hoping that the mere presence of Starfleet’s flagship would inspire the parties to… erm… behave themselves, I think the expression she used had been.**

**Personally, I have my doubts about the wisdom of such demonstrations, but as the negotiations take place on neutral territory, I hope it won’t come to any atrocities. The eventual chance to visit the planet Cestus III, the location of the first contact with the Gorn – now a flourishing Federation colony – goes a long way to reconcile me with this mission, though. This is a place I’ve dreamed to visit since I was a child, but haven’t found the opportunity to do so – until now. I hope…**

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The signal of his subspace comm unit interrupted him, announcing an incoming message. Picard glanced at the UFP logo on the screen; the call came directly from Starfleet Command and bore the code of eyes only messages.

“Computer, stop recording,” he said calmly. “Save log entry for further editing; then open channel.”

“Security code required,” the emotionless female voice of the computer told him after the usual _ping_ tone that acknowledged every order.

“Omicron-Omicron-Alpha-Yellow-Daystar-2-7,” Picard rattled down his current code; the logo vanished from the screen, making place for Admiral Savar.

The Vulcan was in a bad shape, clearly still recovering from his most recent ordeal, but that was to be expected. Being mind-controlled by an alien parasite not longer than his own hand must have been a hundred times worse for him than it would have been for a non-telepathic human. And while Picard was still haunted by the memory of staff officers acting like mere puppets, ordering their own ships to be fired at and so on, he knew, intellectually, that it hadn’t been their fault. A parasite that could subjugate the powerful, well-trained mind of a _Vulcan_ was to be taken seriously.

He would overcome his instinctive aversion towards the once-possessed officers. Eventually. Until then, he’d do his best to remain civil while dealing with them.

“Admiral Savar,” he said by way of greeting. “This is… unexpected. What can I do for you?”

“I have new orders for you, Captain,” like all Vulcans, Savar was not the least interested in small talk and cut right to the core. “You shall change course immediately – the new coordinates are being fed into your navigation computer via secure link as we speak – to rendezvous with the U.S.S. _Washington_. Once there, you shall take aboard Commander Nathan Billings and his aide, Lieutenant Tuvok. They will tell you everything else you shall need to know.”

“What about our mission at Cestus III?” Picard had a hard time to conceal his disappointment, but in the end he managed to do so. Showing it to a Vulcan – especially this Vulcan – would have been unwise.

“We have already dispatched the U.S.S. _Interpid_ to fill the gap as your people would say,” Savar told him. “The _Enterprise_ is to head towards her new destination with maximum travelling velocity. Starfleet out.”

For a moment Picard stared sourly at the screen and the reappeared UFP logo filling it; then he sighed and touched his comm badge.

“Picard to LaForge.”

“LaForge here,” came the immediate answer of his conn officer.

“Mr. LaForge, have the new course coordinates been transferred from Starfleet Command to your navigation computer?” Picard asked.

“Aye, Captain. Data transfer has been completed less than a moment ago. Your orders, sir?”

“Set course according to the transferred coordinates,” Picard instructed. “Maximum travelling velocity.”

“Changing course and increasing speed to Warp Factor six by 382 cochranes, aye, sir,” Geordi replied simply.

Picard nodded, although the pilot couldn’t see it, of course. “Very well, Mr. LaForge. Engage.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Ships Counselor Deanna Troi was having tea with Doctor Selar in the officers’ lounge when all senior officers were summoned to the captain’s ready room. They had been sitting in companionable silence for almost an hour by then, drinking hot _seja_ , the Vulcan version of herbal tea. They met like this once in every two or three days. 

Troi found the fact that she couldn’t _read_ the Vulcan very refreshing. It wasn’t easy for a half-Betazoid empath to live on a ship with a mostly human crew. Humans had very little mental discipline and tended to broadcast their emotions way too loudly for her comfort. 

She often wondered what might have ridden her mother to marry a human, of all available candidates (and those, according to Lwaxana Troi, had been numerous). Even if said human had been a Starfleet officer… and presumably a heroic one. Her own family was rich and influential enough to have practically anyone.

“Well, I must go,” she said to Selar apologetically. “Same place, same time, in two days?”

The Vulcan nodded solemnly and returned to the contemplation of her _seja_ , while Troi was hurrying towards the turbolift.

When she arrived to the captain’s ready room, nearly the whole senior staff had gathered there already. Only Lieutenant Yar was still missing, and Troi was surprised by the absence of the security chief. Worf, however, towered in his full height next to Commander Riker; he practically filled the ready room on his own.

Captain Picard got right to the point as was his wont. “I’ll be short, as we don’t have much time,” he said. “In two hour’s time, we’ll rendezvous with the U.S.S. _Washington_ and take aboard Commander Billings, a high-ranking security expert of Starfleet Command. He will apparently be escorted by his personal aide, a certain Lieutenant Tuvok.”

Will Riker arched an inquisitive eyebrow. “Billings? Isn’t he the author of the basic security handbook of Starfleet Academy?”

“Indeed, Commander,” Lt. Cmdr. Data answered instead of the captain. “Nathan Billings is one of the most respected docents of the Academy, has been teaching advanced tactical training in Annapolis for seven years, and. Lieutenant Tuvok is a Vulcan who’s also taught at the Academy for sixteen years and…”

“Thank you, Data,” Picard interrupted. “We all know Billings the career officer, at least from stories and official briefings. What can you tell me about Nathan Billings the person?”

“I am afraid there is not much to say, Captain,” the android replied. “Commander Billings seems to be a very private person. Nothing about his personal life is known; those parts of his file are closed. My security clearance is not high enough to allow access. It seems that he rarely makes an appearance, save from his Academy lessons. But you may learn more from Lieutenant Yar. She has been a student of Commander Billings; he supported her and helped her to get accepted to the Academy.”

“Interesting,” Picard looked around, as if realising for the first time his security chief’s absence. “Where is Lieutenant Yar, by the way?”

“In sickbay,” Worf reported. “She’s suffered an injury during our last training session, but she’ll come as soon as Dr Crusher has fused her ribs. She asked me to stand in for her in this meeting.”

In her constant struggle to improve herself and thus fulfil her duties at peak efficiency, Tasha Yar had chosen to train with Worf, from the beginning of their service aboard the _Enterprise_. Having a sparring partner that much stronger than she was herself could definitely be seen as an advantage; plus, she enjoyed those training sessions greatly. She was a woman who found great delight in strenuous physical activities.

It was unfortunate that she’d had to go to sickbay right now, though. Her presence as the ship’s chief of security – as well as her personal knowledge about Commander Billings – would have come in handy.

Picard suppressed an impatient sigh and nodded. “Well, I’d like her on the hangar deck on time, together with the entire senior staff. Such a celebrity needs to be welcomed properly.”

“On the hangar deck?” Riker repeated, surprised. “Why doesn’t he just beam over?”

Picard gave him a wry look. “According to Captain Hajar, Commander Billings refuses to make use of the transporter… for reasons he doesn’t feel necessary to reveal.”

“There are numerous people with a transporter phobia,” Troi shrugged elegantly. “Even in Starfleet. I know a certain Dr. Pulaski who never uses it, either.”

“Maybe,” Data allowed. “But Commander Billings _did_ use the transporter during his deep space missions without difficulties. It seems strange that now he refuses to do so.”

“He will have his reasons,” Picard said, dismissing the topic as irrelevant. “Very well. It seems that we won’t learn anything either about Commander Billings or about the mission before he arrives. We’ll meet on the hangar deck, as soon as his shuttle docks in. Dismissed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Two hours later the _Enterprise_ reached the rendezvous point on time, as scheduled. Picard was not on the bridge, having Riker occupy the command chair for the time being – something the ambitious first officer greatly appreciated. Data sat at Science Station One, Lieutenant LaForge at Conn and Worf stood at Tactical. The other positions are filled by the usual crewmembers of Alpha Shift. Riker watched the main viewer with interest. 

The sight was certainly worth anyone’s attention.

The U.S.S. _Washington_ (NCC – 26214) had beaten them at the rendezvous point – and boy, was she a sight for sore eyes! She was an _Ambassador_ -class heavy cruiser, certainly smaller than the _Enterprise_ but still 526 metres long… not bad for a starship design that was considered aging. _Ambassador_ -class vessels were equipped for science missions as well as for combat, and the U.S.S. _Washington_ , patrolling and explaining the area near the Romulan Neutral Zone for years, had had her fair share from both. She had become something of a legend of her own.

With a daredevil captain, whose fame matched that of the ship. A captain Riker looked forward to meet, if only via the comm system.

“Open hailing frequencies,” he ordered Worf.

“Hailing frequencies opened,” the Klingon replied, his tone showing clearly how much he disliked to be degraded to function as a communications officer. Not that Riker cared. Besides, there had not been such thing as communications officers on a starship for a very long time.

“ _Washington_ , this is Commander William T. Riker from the _Enterprise_. Do you read me?”

The image on the main viewer changed from the gleaming white ship to that of a handsome, dark-haired, dark eyed man in his late forties.

“Clearly and smoothly, _Enterprise_ ,” he said with a faint French accent. “I’m Captain Javier Hajar. Are you ready for the transfer?”

Riker glanced at Ensign Mikal Holden, sitting at the Engineering station, and the exotic-looking Daliwakan nodded, without being asked.

“Aye, sir, Shuttle bay Two has been prepared.”

Captain Hajar nodded. “ _Trés bien_. Shuttlecraft is being launched as we speak. Please check back when it arrives. _Washington_ out.”

It didn’t happen often that Riker lost the ability of speech for the moment. This was one of those moments. He was not used to being dismissed without given the chance to say a word. Not even by a living legend like Captain Hajar.

At the moment, however, he couldn’t do anything about it.

He raised his voice, just enough to activate the comm unit in the command chair’s arm. “Riker to Picard.”

“Go ahead,” the captain’s voice answered.”

“Captain, we’ve reached the rendezvous point.”

“Is the _Washington_ already there?”

“Aye, sir. They’ve launched the shuttlecraft less than a minute ago.”

“Very well, Number One. I’m going down to Shuttle Bay Two. Instruct senior staff to join me. Until further notice you have the bridge.”

“Aye, sir,” Riker answered and did as he had been told.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Picard reached Shuttle Bay Two almost at the same time as Dr. Crusher. He raised an eyebrow, seeing Wesley accompanying his mother, but didn’t protest… for now. Data, Worf, Counselor Troi and Chief Engineer Argyle followed soon. 

The outer doors of the shuttle bay were open, and the shuttle, held firmly by the obligatory tractor beam, was being pulled in. An officer wearing the black-and-gold uniform of the engineering crew, with an ensign’s pips on his collar, was standing at a control panel next to the door. He attached a second tractor beam, which automatically released the first, stronger one and transferred control to the operator. 

This didn’t mean that the pilot of the shuttlecraft couldn’t have landed his or her vehicle safely. Most shuttle pilots could land on a handkerchief if they had to. But using the supporting tractor beams made the landing more secure for the ship, so they always used this procedure, save for the cases of emergency.

Less than a minute later the shuttlecraft settled on the floor safely and the tractor beam disengaged. The hangar doors closed noiselessly.

“Landing sequence complete, the officer on duty reported. ”Shuttle bay is pressurised,” Emergency force fields shut down. You can enter now, Captain.”

“Thank you, Ensign,” Picard gave the shuttlecraft a closer look. 

It was a standard Type 6 vehicle: a six-meter-long light, short-range warp shuttle, capable of travelling with warp 2 for thirty-six standard hours. Unlike other crafts of the same type, though, it didn’t have a registration number painted on its outer hull, signalling that it didn’t belong to any particular starship but hat been assigned to a staff officer for his personal use.

In the next moment the back door of the shuttlecraft opened and, after a few seconds, out floated a hoverchair carrying a middle-aged man with grey hair and a rugged face, wearing the black-and-gold working uniform of Starfleet Security. He was followed by a tall, willowy black Vulcan in the same uniform, with a lieutenant’s pips on his collar. 

The Vulcan officer appeared calm and inscrutable like an ebony Buddha, only the pointy ears ruined the impression somewhat. Riker eyed him with interest. So, this was Lieutenant Tuvok? Interesting. He’d have expected somebody more heavily built, even for a Vulcan. Security were security, no matter where.

On the other hand, Tasha Yar wasn’t particularly beefy, either.

While Riker was doing his observations, Picard stepped forth, straightening to a proper stance.

“Welcome aboard the _Enterprise_ , Commander Billings. It is an honour for us to have one of the leading officers of Security Academy examining the ship and the crew. I’m sure…”

He couldn’t continue, as the ugly but highly intelligent face of Billings contorted in something that might have been anger... or pain.”

“What is the Klingon doing here?” the commander asked in that subdued voice that told of the irritation of constant suffering.

Picard stiffened and cast a quick sideways look at Worf who obviously had a hard time to restrain himself.

“Lieutenant Worf is my tactical officer and, as you doubtlessly know, Commander, one of the best weapons experts in Starfleet. I count myself lucky for having him in my command staff,” he said evenly. “I must say, though, that I’m surprised by your attitude. I thought that in the recent decades prejudices against Klingons have been cleared out – even in Starfleet’s Security Division.”

“Your opinion in this matter is completely irrelevant, Picard,” Billings interrupted again. “There are bigger things at stake than the configuration of the staff aboard our flagship. At 1600 board time, I’ll inform you about the upcoming mission. I’ll also hand you the list of the officers who will have to leave the _Enterprise_ , effective immediately. Until then, your orders are to change course and head to Starbase 39-Sierra, warp 5.”

The senior officers exchanged grim looks. Starbase 39-Sierra was the Federation base nearest to the Romulan Neutral Zone. Should there be any threat from the other side of the Zone, it needed to be stopped at Starbase 39-Sierra… at the very last. The bad thing was, if the strategic importance of Starbase 39-Sierra was mentioned, it would mean that Outpost #23, the key post of the Federation’s frontal defence, had fallen already due to a Romulan invasion. Which seemed rather unlikely, though, considering that it was the _Enterprise_ that parted ways with the first Romulan Warbird seen in the last fifty years on relatively peaceful terms.

“Counselor,” Picard turned to Troi; guessing around wouldn’t lead anywhere, they would learn early enough what this was all about, “please escort Commander Billings to his quarters. I expect everyone in the observation lounge at 1600. Dismissed.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commander Billings is “played” by Roy Scheider and is considerably older in this story than in the original plot draft: in his mid-sixties. In the 25th century, people are supposedly longer living and longer active.  
> All technical details are taken from “The Next Generation Technical Manual”. I apologize by my technically savvy readers, should I have misunderstood any of the insanely complicated technobabble.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 02 – MISSION BRIEFING**

The senior staff of the _Enterprise_ began to gather in the observation lounge well before 16:00. One could see warp space through the great, arched windows and watch the stellar constellations that were distorted to long, coloured ribbons due to the extreme speed of the ship – a speed 214 times faster than light. This was a sight everyone but Vulcans found highly unpleasant, so usually the windows were screened during warp flight. But right now the officers present were much too preoccupied with other unpleasant things to care.

The whooshing sound of the slide doors startled Captain Picard abruptly from his brooding. The stocky, bearded Chief Engineer Argyle carefully maneuvered the hoverchair of Commander Billings into the observation lounge and secured it near to the big viewscreen embedded into one of the walls, so that Billings could reach the controls without help. After that, Argyle joined his colleagues without a word. He was a man of few words and many meaningful looks.

Lieutenant Tuvok trailed after them and remained standing at the door.

“Commander Billings,” Picard began, steeling himself for the next inevitable clash with this living legend, “may I introduce you my staff? My first officer, Commander Riker…”

“Yes, yes, we all know Kyle Riker’s golden boy,” Billings interrupted immediately and Riker, who hadn’t been on speaking terms with his father since the age of fifteen, became red-faced with suppressed anger. “I’ve studied the crew manifest of the _Enterprise_ and am well aware of the structure of your command staff, Captain. This is not the time for social pleasantries.”

“It has been my experience that good manners can smooth the way of understanding,” Picard replied dryly, “but by all means, Commander, have it your way. Now that we’re on our way again, perhaps you can enlighten us _where_ are we heading and _why_.”

“All things will become clear in due time,” Billings replied evasively. “For the moment, however, I need to take the scenic route of the ship, so that Lieutenant Tuvok and I may determine the status of ship security.”

“Certainly,” Picard said; he’d heard of the tightening of security protocols after the close call with the alien parasites and couldn’t really blame Starfleet Command for being slightly paranoid. “Lieutenant Yar can show you around; after all, it’s her responsibility. But I’m quite sure that…”

“Thank you, Captain, that will be all for now,” Billings interrupted again. “I’ll tell you more when I’ve been reassured that the _Enterprise_ is up to the special security requirements of this particular mission.”

He glanced at his Vulcan aide standing next to the door like a statue. “Lieutenant, give me a hand!”

This was clearly meant literally, as the Vulcan took over the steering of the hovercar as they followed Yar out.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Well,” Picard said to his command staff after the door had closed behind their irascible guest. “What do you think?”

“It must be something really big,” Geordi LaForge, both of whose parents were high-ranking Starfleet officers – his mother the commanding officer of various starbases and then the captain of the USS _Hydra_ , his father a renowned scientist – said thoughtfully. “They’d not have sent Commander Billings in person otherwise.”

“Agreed; but what can it be?” Riker turned to Data. “Have there been any new events reported from the Romulan Neutral Zone?”

“Accessing,” the android’s yellow eyes took on that peculiar vacant expression as always when he was consulting the vast database stored within his positronic brain. “Nothing since the mysterious destruction of several Federation and Romulan outposts, earlier in this year – which, as you know, triggered the end of the extended period of Romulan isolationism, beginning after the Tomed Incident of 2311.”

“During which the Romulans slaughtered thousands of Federation citizens,” Worf growled. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the destruction of _our_ outposts would turn out to have been their doing. They’re vermin without honour, both as individuals and as a race altogether.”

Picard gave him a cold glare. “Mr Worf, I hoped that Starfleet training would be effective enough to cure individual officers from extreme prejudices, whatever personal grievances they might have against any other sentient beings. As this obviously isn’t true for Klingons, I’d prefer if you kept your prejudices to yourself and only spoke if you had something _useful_ to say. Have I made myself clear, Lieutenant?”

“Aye, sir,” Worf replied, completely unrepentant.

“Besides, in this particular case you’re mistaken about the involvement of the Romulans,” LaForge said. “After some reluctance, Commander Tomalak allowed a research team of Outpost #23 to examine the destroyed outposts on _their_ side of the Neutral Zone,” he smiled briefly at the surprised reaction of the others. “My mother used to be the commanding officer of that outpost. I practically grew up there and still have friends there.”

“Did they find anything conclusive?” Picard asked.

“Not much,” LaForge shrugged apologetically. “The technology that destroyed both the Federation _and_ Romulan outposts was apparently the same. It left nothing but a pattern of large crates on the surface of the moons and asteroids where once the outposts had been. As if somebody had simply carved out large chunks of those stellar bodies – with surgical precision, may I add. The research team found no traces of DNA, no pieces of abandoned technology… nothing.”

“But they’re sure that the attackers were the same, on both sides of the Neutral Zone?” Riker asked.

LaForge nodded. “Fairly sure. It’s nothing the Federation has ever met before. Whoever those guys are, they’re thorough… and way beyond our level of technology.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” Chief Engineer Argyle said in his characteristic understated manner. “Could it be that the Romulans learned something that made them reconsider their isolationist politics and they’re now considering an alliance?”

“Unlikely,” Picard shook his head. “The Romulans are a warrior race; asking an old enemy for help would violate their sense of _mnhei’sahe_.”

“Their _what_?” Riker frowned, because honestly, _that_ sounded like a sneeze.

“ _Mnhei’sahe_ , the Ruling Passion, is a concept-complex that rules most of the Romulan life in terms of honour,” Data explained pedantically. “It’s an expression in High Rihan, derivated from the ancient High Vulcan, and is very hard to translate into Federation Standard. It is primarily occupied with courtesy to people around one; this courtesy, depending on circumstances, may require killing a person to do them honour, or severely disadvantage one’s self on their behalf. The ramifications are too complicated to go into them deeper right now, but generally _mnhei’sahe_ is satisfied if all the parties to an agreement or situation feel that their ‘face’ or honour is intact after a social – or other – transaction.”

Data paused, giving the others time to absorb all the information dumped onto them without warning, then added.

“This definition has been phrased by Lieutenant Janice Kerasus, head of the original _Enterprise_ ’s linguistic section, in 2275, when Captain Kirk and his crew had a temporary alliance with Commander Ael i-Mhiessan t'Rllaillieu, to bring down an immoral scientific project on Levaeri V.”

“What project?” Dr Crusher perked up with interest.

“Unknown,” Data replied. “Information about the project has been declared top secret; only the senior members of Starfleet Sciences may have access; and even then, a lengthy procedure is involved.”

“What has become of Commander Ael?” Picard asked. “I can’t imagine her bosses appreciating her actions, no matter what any of them thought about personal honour.”

“They did not,” Data agreed. “Commander t'Rllaillieu has been branded as a traitor for her honourable act and she spent the rest of her life in exile, on board of her old ship, the _Bloodwing_ , together with the survivors of her loyal crew.”

“Every good deed receives its proper punishment,” Riker commented dryly.

Picard nodded. “Romulans are a complicated people; even more so than Vulcans are. Many of the ancient customs and traditions that were given up due to Surak’s reform of logic and pacifism have lived on among the Romulans, whose ancestors left Vulcan as a protest against the rapid spreading and eventual victory of Surak’s philosophy.”

“A strange outcome of events,” Deanna Troi, coming from a culture as old as that of Vulcan, said thoughtfully. “Those who emerged from the philosophical struggle victorious still live on a desert planet, with only a few insignificant colonies. Those who’ve lost and gone into exile have now a Star Empire and are one of the three strongest interstellar powers. Small wonder that they’d developed a tremendous self-confidence that borders on sheer arrogance.”

“A border they often and more than happily cross,” LaForge grinned.

“Perhaps so,” Troi allowed. “But considering how far they’ve come in a relatively short time, I think they’re entitled to be proud of their achievements.”

Wolf muttered something unintelligible under his breath. In Klingoneese. Data, the only person who actually understood the comment, wisely refrained from offering a translation. Picard, just as wisely, chose _not_ to ask him for one and turned to Troi instead.

“Counselor, can you tell us anything about the state of mind of our visitors? Especially about that of Commander Billings?”

Troi nodded slowly, thoughtfully. She had expected the question and had already given it some preliminary thought.

“Commander Billings has surprisingly good mental shields for a non-telepathic human,” she began, “but he can’t hide completely that he’s worried about this mission. He’s also in a considerable amount of pain which, I believe, comes from his disability. Whatever happened to him that landed him in the hoverchair, he clearly didn’t react to the treatment as expected. The fact that his condition hinders him in his work is also a source of constant frustration for him. I advise caution when dealing with him, Captain.”

“What about Lieutenant Tuvok?” Riker asked.

Troi shook her head ruefully. “I can’t get anything from him; anything at all. But that’s not really surprising. He’s a Vulcan, he’s about a hundred years old and he’s gone through every kind of security training Starfleet has been able to think of during the last fifty years. I’m just an empath; I’m no match for him. Again, I advise caution.”

Picard nodded. “Thank you, Counselor; I’ll take your advice under consideration. Beverly,” he then turned to Dr Crusher. “Could there be a possible cure for Commander Billings’s condition? It’s not often that people would be bound to hoverchairs in the twenty-fourth century. We’ve come a long way since Captain Pike’s times.”

“I don’t know, Captain,” Dr Crusher confessed. “I’d have to see his medical file… _or_ give him a complete physical.”

“It’s within your right as the chief medical officer of the ship to do so, Doctor,” Data reminded her. “It would be easier to achieve than to get his file when he refuses to give permission.”

“Which he would,” Riker commented.

“I’m afraid so,” Picard agreed. “Does he need any specific accommodations to help him physically?”

“I asked him,” Troi said. “He replied in the negative. He also took offence that a boy like Wesley would have access to the Bridge,” she glanced at Dr Crusher apologetically. “Wes hovered around his chair; you know what he’s like with every new piece of technology. Commander Billings… was _not_ amused. Perhaps it would be a good idea if Wes stayed away from all restricted areas during this mission.”

Dr Crusher was clearly appalled by that suggestion but before she could have voiced her protest Picard, who didn’t always tolerate well the boy’s constant meddling with ship’s procedures, nodded in agreement.

“That would be probably the best, for all parties involved. Well, we won’t be able to make any plans before Commander Billings returns from his control cruise, so let’s go on as usual for the time being. Dismissed.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
On their tour of the stardrive section – the cylindrical lower part of the great starship, also known as the secondary hull or the battle section, which would remain after a saucer separation – Commander Billings, Lieutenant Tuvok and an increasingly frustrated Lieutenant Yar finally reached the secondary centre of the _Enterprise_ , from which battle operations could be controlled. 

This secondary control centre was normally used when the saucer module – which contained the Main Bridge – had to be separated in order to evacuate the civilians before a potentially dangerous situation, allowing them to escape at impulse power, while the stardrive section fought the enemy. The Battle Bridge was located on Deck 8, at the top of the battle section, and could have been accessed directly from the Main Bridge by means of a dedicated emergency turboelevator – had Commander Billings _not_ chosen the scenic tour.

The typical Battle Bridge of each _Galaxy_ -class starship incorporated the standard Conn and Ops panels for starlight operations, but included enhanced tactical analysis and weapons control stations, as well as secondary controls for communications and engineering. Its computer subprocessors were able to control all major ship systems, even in the – hypothetical – event of total Main Bridge incapacity and partial main computer core failure.

The Battle Bridge of the _Enterprise-D_ had already been updated once since the ship had left the Utopia Planitia Shipyards and all its systems were running at peak efficiency. Or so Assistant Chief Engineer Jim Shimoda, the only crewmember on duty in the otherwise empty section, reported.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Commander Billings interrupted harshly; then he glanced over his shoulder at his aide. “Lieutenant Tuvok, proceed at your convenience.”

The black Vulcan solemnly stepped away from the hoverchair, whipped out a PADD and began to check each and every workstation on the Battle Bridge with meticulous care, waving off Shimoda’s offers of assistance.

“Thank you, Mr Shimoda, but I believe I can finish my task 48.6 per cent faster without your help. You may leave now.”

As the last remark was clearly a politely phrased order, Shimoda scurried off, muttering angrily under his breath. Like most Starfleet engineers, he felt very protective about “his” ship and “his” engine rooms and didn’t like strangers puttering around where, in his opinion, they had no business to be. 

But he was also smart enough to know that one didn’t argue with high-ranking Starfleet Security personnel. _Or_ with the Vulcan aide of them.

In the meantime Billings was drilling Yar with detailed questions regarding ship’s security, from the origins and personal performance of the individual officers through the number and nature of security drill down to the efficiency of the phaser banks and the torpedo launchers. Yar, who ran a tight ship (as far as the security department was considered) found his questions insulting and way too personal but answered them nonetheless. 

She didn’t really have any other choice, as both Billings and Tuvok outranked her, due to their position at Starfleet Security.

Finally Billings switched topics, asking more questions about the most recent missions of the _Enterprise_. He seemed particularly interested in the latest encounter with the Romulan Warbird at the Neutral Zone and wanted to know every oh so minor detail about it.

“Tell me, Lieutenant,” he said when Yar had run out of anything else to say. “Is there a way to determine if anybody on board of this ship had any contact with the Romulans previously to that encounter?”

“Any encounter in the line of duty must be marked in their personal file,” Yar replied thoughtfully. “So has to, in theory, any private connections known to Starfleet. But only the captain has the clearance to view those files.”

“That’s not entirely correct,” Billings said. “I’ve been given special clearance for the duration of this mission to view any personal files I find necessary to check; but since you know the board systems better than I, you’ll do the cross-referencing for me. And you’ll do it _here_ , without telling a word of it anyone, even Captain Picard. Am I understood?”

“Aye, sir, but…” Yar wanted to protest but was silenced by an irritated glare.

“I gave you an order, Lieutenant. I’ll inform Picard later, as far as he needs to be informed. Now go and do as you were told!”

Seeing that resistance would be futile, Yar called up the files of the entire personnel and ordered the computer to cross-reference them for any possible contact with the Romulans, official or personal. Billings rattled down his temporary clearance code, and the computer started working.

“I was wondering, sir,” Yar began haltingly while they were waiting for the results, “if you still remember Turkana IV?”

Billings frowned. “You mean the failed Terran colony that broke off all diplomatic ties with the Federation Council in 2352? What about it?”

Yar shrugged, feigning indifference. “It’s said that you led the Starfleet Security forces that evacuated all those people who wanted off the planet before it would sink into chaos completely,” she said.

“I did,” Billings replied bluntly. “But that was a long time ago and bears no meaning on the mission at hand. Now, if you could concentrate on the job you have to do in the present, it would be more helpful for us all.”

Insulted and more than a little hurt, Tasha Yar turned back to the computer screen where the first results had begun to roll down.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Having been dismissed from the Bridge, Data assigned one of the junior science officers to man his station and followed Dr. Crusher to Sickbay, as per the doctor’s earlier request. On a _Galaxy_ -class starship that modest name meant a complex medical facility located in the best protected area of the saucer section, spreading all over Deck 12 and consisting, among other things, several intensive-care wards, a medical laboratory, an OB/GYO unit, examination rooms, rehabilitation equipment and offices for on-duty staff and the chief medical officer.

During a large-scale disaster, like the evacuation of another starship or a colony, sickbay facilities could be supplemented by converting the shuttle bays into emergency triage and treatment centres. Fortunately, _this_ was not such a situation. Sickbay was basically empty, save for duty personnel. Usually, that would mean four doctors, three medical technicians and twelve nurses, but as there weren’t any actual patients under treatment at the moment, only Dr Selar was sitting in the duty doctor’s office, catching up with the latest medical journals. The rest of the on-duty personnel was on call and could reach Sickbay within the minute if necessary.

“May I ask, Doctor, what do you need my help with?” Data inquired politely, following their chief medical officer into the lab. 

It was one of the best facilities medical science had come up in the recent years, containing advanced bio-assay and lifeform analysis hardware as well as genetic sequence, nanotherapy and virotherapeutic equipment. Still, as Data was an android, there was very little that could have been done for him in case of a malfunction, therefore his curiosity was more than justified.

“I’m working on an experiment pertaining to organ regeneration,” Dr Crusher explained, activating the lab computer with a voice command. “I’d like to do a complete analysis on your frame construction and spinal fluid to see if that would give me any pointers. Can any nutrient samples be safely removed from your spinal cord?”

“Certainly, Doctor,” Data stepped willingly into the cylindrical all-around diagnostic scanner that started humming at once. “My internal diagnostic system will replace the samples immediately, without causing any interference in my basic functions.”

A moment later the instrument finished the scan and projected a detailed 3D-image of his system into the middle of the lab. Dr. Crusher walked around the hologram and shook her head in amazement.

“You know, Data, every time I get a glimpse of your physiology, I’m beyond puzzled. What these medical instruments state simply cannot be true!”

Data tilted his head to the side, bird-like, and blinked.

“Does it truly matter, Doctor?” he asked. “Does it matter _how_ I exist? It stands beyond doubt that I _do_ exist; that is the only thing that counts in this case, do you not agree?”

Dr Crusher laughed. “You are a very logical being, Data. You would make a Vulcan proud.”

Data blinked again. “That is the basis of my programming, Doctor, and I assure you that the scientist who programmed me was _not_ a Vulcan. Now, I believe you wanted a sample of the nutrients from my spinal cord. The most effective way to gain one would be…”

 _* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *_  
Beta shift was nearing to its end when Commander Billings and his entourage finally returned to the Bridge – hours later than originally planned. One look at them was enough to alert the others – all observant Starfleet officers – for something unpleasant to come. Lieutenant Yar seemed uncharacteristically tense, and she was not one easily provoked. 

Her position that was bound to great responsibility had trained her to keep her temper under tight control. This time, however, her clenched fist clearly shoved how hard keeping that control was being for her. Picard wondered if there had been an open confrontation with Commander Billings.

“Well, Commander,” the captain turned to Billings with the sort of over-emphasized politeness that was only microns away from a veiled insult, “maybe now you’d feel inclined to tell us more about the mission before us.

Billings nodded curtly. “That’s why I am here. But before I start, you’ll remove the Klingon, Picard.”

“No,” the captain replied shortly, silencing the snarling Worf with a single, commanding gesture.

Billings raised an eyebrow in an almost Vulcan manner. “ _No_? Captain, I’m afraid this matter is way above your competence. I’ve got a direct order from Starfleet Command to remove Lieutenant Worf and other sixteen crewmembers listed by name in this document from the _Enterprise_ – until further instructions.”

He threw a data chip at the android sitting on Picard’s left. Data caught it unerringly and slid it into the terminal before him. A moment later a list containing seventeen names appeared on Picard’s monitor. Worf’s name was the first on the list; the others were mostly humans, but there were also Vulcans, Terellians, Rigelians and Bolians. At first sight, Picard couldn’t see anything common between them, save the fact that every single one was at least twice Worf’s age.

“I’m afraid this is not an answer I could accept unconditionally,” he turned to Billings coldly. “The crew of the _Enterprise_ has been hand-picked and they are beyond reproach. If you want me to transfer any of my people off, you’ll have to give me an explanation; and it would better be a very good one.

Nathan Billings chewed his lower lip wordlessly for a moment; then he nodded in resignation. “Very well. I should have known that you’d be nothing but trouble. All right, if you need to know, we’ll be temporarily removing all crewmembers who might have a personal reason to nurture hostile feelings towards Romulans.”

“Which is understandable in Lieutenant Worf’s case,” Picard agreed, “but what do the others have to do with Romulans?”

“All the others have some personal or indirect connection to the Tomed Incident,” Billings explained. “Either they have lived through the massacre personally in their childhood, or they have lost a family member.”

The silence of understanding filled the observation lounge. Fifty-three years earlier, thousands of Federation citizens were killed in this incident, after which the Romulans entered and extended period of isolationism and had not been heard about along Federation borders until recently, although – as Worf had been unlucky enough to witness during the destruction of Khitomer, some twenty years ago – they still had encounters with the Klingons. Decidedly unfriendly ones, although the Klingons were not very forthcoming with the details,

“Now I’m beginning to see the circumstances,” Picard admitted, “although I still don’t understand what we do have to do with the Romulans.”

“Starbase 39-Sierra has been chosen to host a series of very important trade negotiations,” Billings said, “in which, aside from the representatives of Andor, Betazed, Delta, Terra and Vulcan, a few of non-aligned words are going to partake as well. A few days ago the Romulan Star Empire sought out the Federation Council – through unofficial channels, of course – and voiced the wish to join these negotiations… as observers. Hopefully, I don’t have to emphasize the importance of this request…”

No, that really wasn’t necessary. Every Starfleet officer – every Federation citizen in possession of half a functioning brain cell, in fact – realized that succession in signing any sort of treaty with the Romulans would be at least as important for the peace of the galaxy as the admittedly not always problem-free cooperation with the Klingon Empire had been.

“I still don’t understand, though, why is it necessary to remove those crewmembers from the ship,” Picard said. “They are all mature, responsible officers, who have proved their reliability countless times.”

“This is an extraordinary situation, Captain,” Billings replied. “We simply can’t risk anyone sabotaging the conference, out of personal reasons. The negotiations are about the laying of safe trade routes that would partially lead through Romulan territory. There has never been anything like that.”

“It’s still absurd to assume that Worf would break his oath to Starfleet,” Yar commented tersely.

“Lieutenant, the Romulans killed Mr Worf’s parents, back when the two empires were still allied to each other,” Billings reminded her.

“I know that,” Yar replied. “Your point being, sir?”

“Klingons tend to consider personal honour more important than matters of common interest,” Billings replied dryly. “I won’t risk Lieutenant Worf being overcome by a personal vendetta.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Yar protested.

Counselor Troi raised a hand. “May I suggest a compromise, Captain?”

“By all means, Counselor. I’m thankful for any help I can get in this matter.”

“I, too, believe that it would be a sign of mistrust to remove these people from the ship; a mistrust that could easily backfire,” Troi said. “On the other hand, I agree with Commander Billings that we can’t take any risks. I suggest that the persons in question be removed from active duty roster and confirmed to their quarters while the negotiations are held.”

“Why don’t we throw them into the brig right away?” Yar snapped. “After all, isn’t it their own fault that the Romulans killed their families? And why do you make an exception with Lieutenant Tuvok? It’s a know fact that Vulcans have homicidal tendencies when they are running amok. Not to mention that he was serving on the destroyed starbase during that massacre. If Lieutenant Worf is considered dangerous, so is Lieutenant Tuvok. More so, actually, considering his long experience and advanced training as a security officer.”

“Please spare us your attempts of irony, Lieutenant,” Picard silenced her sternly. “I think, under the circumstances we’d be causing the least damage if we accepted Counselor Troi’s suggestion.”

“I’ll talk to the people in question, sir, to make them understand the measures that need to be taken,” Troi offered. 

Picard nodded in agreement. “Thank you, Counselor.” 

He then turned to his tactical officer and said slowly. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Worf, but I must ask you to leave the Bridge and stay away until further notice. You’ll be allowed to move around freely aboard the _Enterprise_ until we reach our destination but will be confirmed to your quarters for the duration of the actual mission. Dismissed.”

Troi could feel Worf’s white-hot anger clearly. But the Klingon kept the obligatory discipline of a true warrior. He rose without a word and marched out with heavy strides.

Picard gave Billings a cold look. “Satisfied, Commander?”

“Far from it; but for the beginning it will do,” Billings replied bluntly. “One security risk is removed from the Bridge at least. That’s better than nothing.”

“And you truly believe this will solve your problem?” Picard asked. “No-one likes the Romulans; not even the Vulcans. I’m not particularly fond of them, either.”

“But you’ve impressed them during your recent encounter with that Warbird,” Billings replied, surprising everyone. “They have specifically asked for the presence of the _Enterprise_ at the negotiations. I believe, and Admiral Savar agrees with me, that they merely want you to be there.”

“I see,” Picard said, fairly baffled. “Well, in that case… Mr. Data, when is our estimated time of arrival on Starbase 39-Sierra?”

“At current speed three weeks, six days, nineteen hours, thirty-two minutes and…”

“Thank you, Mr. Data, that’s precise enough for me. All right, everyone knows what we have to do? Questions?”

There were none. Picard dismissed the senior staff with a gesture of his hand and glared grimly at the stiff back of Lieutenant Tuvok, who steered Commander Billings out of the observation lounge. This did not promise to be a mission he would think back fondly during his retirement.


	3. The Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are lots of honest-to-Romulus canon characters in this chapter (including book-canon), with the exception of the Praetor himself and t’Luin. You’re free to guess who’s who. *g* The Praetor is “played” by Benedict Cumberbatch, t’Luin probably by Jolene Blalock, although I might change my mind about that.
> 
>  **Warning:** The Romulan language, name-giving tradition and cultural aspects have been originally created by Diane Duane in her novels “My Enemy, My Ally” and “The Romulan Way”. I find her take on the Romulans richer and more interesting than what little canon threw at us, so I’m following book canon. Meaning that I don’t accept a lot of things said in the “Enterprise” series or the “Nemesis” movie. If you disagree with that choice, I’ll ask you respectfully to hit the Back button _now_ because you won’t like this story.
> 
> Feel free to ignore the footnotes while reading this chapter – they’re mainly the translations of the Romulan words/phrases and their meaning can be deduced from the context. They’re just for the more geeky ones among us. :)

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 03 – THE ENEMY**

Commander Tebok ei-Mheissan tr’Hwaehrai was sitting in the center-chair in the bridge of the huge _D-deridex_ -class Warbird, the _Ra’kholk_ (1), motionless like a statue. While he appeared to be routinely watching the activity of his _hwaeyiir_ (2) with half an eye, his keenly intelligent mind was occupied with the enormous task before him. 

And with that he didn’t mean the simple (yet meaningful) move of crossing the Neutral Zone – again! – and delivering the representative of the _Fvillhaih_ (3) to the perhaps most important conference since the _Rihannsu_ (4) first met the _Lloann’mhrahel_ (5) some two hundred years previously.

Tebok – like their Vulcan cousins, the _Rihannsu_ only revealed their call-names to outsiders, while calling each other by their House-names as a sign of respect, unless related to each other or close friends – was in a somewhat delicate position. His family, though old and respected, came from _ch’Havran_ (6), which meant that they had always had to work much harder for success than those who originated from the more dominant one of the twin homeworlds. In the tangled web of intrigue that was _Rihannsu_ society, it paid off to be present where the web was being weaved.

That he had been able to climb the ranks and become the commanding officer of one of the brand new, powerful Warbirds at such a relatively young age was due to the patronage of House _s’Khellian_ \- the House of the Hunter -, one of the oldest, wealthiest and most influential praetorial Houses on ch’Havran. 

Members of House _s’Khellian_ had traditionally been sitting on both sides of the _Tricameron_ (7), being a senatorial House by inheritance and a praetorial one due to their wealth and influence. The _s’Khellian hru’firh_ , the Lord of that noble House, had always sent promising sons and daughters of allied Houses to the military, _including_ the _Tal Shiar_ , to ensure their own safety. Because without military support, not even such old Houses could have prevailed.

Of course, other Houses did the same; the power struggle never ended in _Rihannsu_ society. They were a competitive warrior race, their lives were based on alliances, old traditions and an ancient code of honour so ingrained in their very being that few of them could entirely ignore it. 

Outsiders liked to say that _Rihannsu_ had no honour at all; but that was, of course, not true. The principle of _mnhei’sahe_ raised high demands towards the _Rihannsu_ character – demands that no outsider could truly understand. Demands that led to situations like the current composition of the _Ra’kholk_ ’s crew, with the conflicting loyalties each individual had to work out for him- or herself.

“ _Rekkhai_ (8),” Subcommander t’Liu turned around with her chair from the screen displaying the readings of the long-range sensors. “We have crossed the Neutral Zone and are approaching our rendezvous point with the flagship of he _Lloannen’galae_.”

“ _Hrafirh’rau!_ (9)” Tebok replied curtly. “ _Ta’rhae_ (10)!”

T’Liu projected the tactical view of the sector onto the main screen of the _hweyiir_. It showed the nearest stars, closer up the uninhabited planetoids along the Federation side of the border of the Neutral Zone, among them the gleaming artificial structure that was Starbase 39-Sierra… and far, far away still, the tiny dot marked by the arrow-like Starfleet symbol and the ID-code of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_ , approaching at high warp from the opposite direction.

Tebok felt the pressure on his chest ease a little. The presence of the _Enterprise_ was their best chance to make _tr’Khellian_ ’s risky plan work. It was still a dangerous dance on the sword’s edge, but with somebody like Captain Picard hosting the negotiations at least they _did_ have a chance. 

_What_ they did with that chance was entirely their responsibility, of course.

Tebok rose from the command chair with determination.

“I will inform the Praetor,” he announced, heading for the lift. “ _Ri’lae fv’htaiell, Erei’riov_ ,(11)” he added as an afterthought for his second-in-command, Thei tr’Annwhi, who was currently standing at the tactical console. For security reasons, they were running with a skeleton crew, so the senior officers had to fill various posts, as any given situation would demand.

“ _Ssuaj-ha!_ (12)” tr’Annwhi replied crisply and was already heading down towards the command chair as ordered, with carefully suppressed eagerness.

That was the last thing Tebok saw as the doors closed on him, and he smiled grimly. Tr’Annwhi wanted so badly to have that seat for himself for true that not even in his commanding officer’s presence could he completely hide it. 

A mistake that might cause his downfall one day, certainly.

His executive officer came from a long line of career military and was a good, competent officer himself. Under different circumstances Tebok would have liked to have him under his command. Unfortunately, tr’Annwhi was also a plant of the _Tal Shiar_. More accurately, a protégée of Jaeih t’Radaik, the infamous Deputy Director of the _Tal Shiar_.

House _s’Radaik_ , one of the leading military Houses of _ch’Rihan_ , had its protégées everywhere; the same way as House _s’Khellian_ did. Therefore, even though a Fleet officer and nominally a subordinate of Tebok, tr’Annwhi counted as a supporter of _Tal Shiar_ politics. Just as t’Liu, despite being an officer of the _Tal Shiar_ , was unwaveringly loyal to House _s’Khellian_ ; the same way as Tebok himself.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The lift stopped on the First Habitat Level, deep within the Warbird’s hull, where the quarters of the senior staff and those of important visitors were situated. Tebok left the lift cabin, walked up to the ornate door of the VIP quarters and rang the door-chime. Then he waited respectfully.

“Come in!” the deep, rich voice of the Praetor said from within and the slide doors opened noiselessly.

Tebok stepped into his patron’s antechamber. Although, strictly spoken, Lhaerl tr’Khellian was merely the brother of his actual patron and the true puppet master beyond this dangerous undertaking, _Deihu_ (13) M’ret tr’Khellian. A senator who had just recently risen to the office of a proconsul.

The brother _and_ the long-reaching right hand. Between the two of them, the brothers s’Khellian had their eyes and ears in both legislative-executive branches of the government… _and_ in both branches of the military, due to their numerous protégées. Not a small task for a House that, just a century earlier, was on the verge of extinction.

As a rule, the younger brother took over the part of their shared schemes whenever physical action was needed. M’ret preferred to sit in the centre of his web in the Senate Chambers in _Ra’tleirfi_ and manipulate things through his retainers. Lhaerl, on the other hand, was way too restless to do the same. He liked to be in the middle of the action, often regardless of his own safety – or that of those around him, which made the guards of House _s’Khellian_ age prematurely.

Currently he was sitting in an armchair of chrome and black leather, wearing a black robe with sweeping sleeves, his fingers stapled under his chin in a fairly good imitation of the Vulcan meditation pose. It was a pose he often assumed when only his faithful retainers could see him, stating that it helped him think. 

Thinking was something Lhaerl tr’Khellian held in _very_ high regard. Higher than any other aspect of life, including food or sleep – or even breathing. He was a true eccentric, driven by the elements of water and air, as the elders would say.

“ _Auethn!_ (14)”, he ordered, without changing his pose or even as much as looking in Tebok’s direction.

“We’re approaching the Federation Starbase 39-Sierra, _Rekkhai_ ,” Tebok, long grown indifferent towards the Praetor’s eccentricity, reported.

That earned him a fleeting glance of those pale, slanted eyes.

“What about the Federation flagship?” Lhaerl asked.

“A ship sending the ID-code of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_ is coming in at high warp from the opposite direction,” Tebok replied cautiously. “Of course, they could be sending a false ID-code. We can’t be one hundred per cent certain until they’ve come into visual range.”

Tr’Khellian shook his head, sending his curls flying. He wore his hair longer than the usual military crop that even many of the civilians had adopted in recent decades.

“No, they won’t do that,” he said in confidence. “This… conference is as important for them as it is for us. They won’t endanger the negotiations at such an early stage – not before they had even begun – by such a minor technicality. They may wonder why we’ve insisted on having the _Enterprise_ host the conference, but they’ll cooperate – for the time being.”

Tebok nodded in agreement. It was a very Federation thing to do.

“May I ask a question, _Rekkhai_?” he then asked; and at the simple nod of the Praetor, he continued. “ _Why_ do we insist on the Enterprise being the location of this conference? A Galaxy-class starship is more than a mach for our Warbirds; to extricate you from the Starbase itself in case of an emergency would be much easier.”

“It would also be easier for t’Radaik to have me assassinated,” tr’Khellian replied dryly. “It may still count as a dishonourable act, but when did the _Tal Shiar_ care about honour? Besides, even if they got caught and publicly shamed for it, I’d still be dead, wouldn’t I? And in the current phase of our long-term plans my role is still too crucial to afford getting killed.”

Tebok didn’t ask any questions about the plans mentioned. He did not _need_ to. He was one of the very few loyal retainers who knew them all. 

The plans for the most immediate trade negotiations that enabled them to contact the Federation in the first place.

The plans behind those plans, aiming for a possible military alliance with the Federation, and even the _Kll’inghann_ (15) that – as much as he hated the mere thought of it – might be needed against the new, unknown and disturbingly powerful enemy that apparently made no distinction whose outposts it annihilated.

And the plans behind the plans behind the plans; a secret so deep and so dangerous that he preferred _not_ to think about them. Not even when he was alone in his quarters. A secret that no-one dared to speak of, unless in cautiously phrased allusions that only a selected few insiders would understand.

So yes, tr’Khellian’s chance to be assassinated was fairly good in every phase of each level of those plans. The trick was to prevent an assassination _before_ he would have played his role in the whole intricate game to its end. For his role was of a very special nature. A role in which he couldn’t be simply replaced, as his unique abilities – paramount for the success of the plans, if there was any success to have – were as rare as a snowy day on Vulcan.

“In what way would you be safer aboard the _Enterprise_ , though?” Tebok asked doubtfully. “Their tactical officer is a _Kll’inghann_ ; and quite a few crewmembers lost family in the Tomed Incident.”

“So have our people; and unlike the _Lloan’na_ (16), we actually _know_ the ugly truth about the Tomed Incident,” the Praetor replied with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter. The _Lloan’na_ are clearly desperate to make this conference a success, and the _Enterprise_ is a controlled environment; much more than a Starbase of the size of 39-Sierra. And Captain Picard is known to have successfully hosted delicate diplomatic meeting before. He even managed to settle a dispute between the Gemarians and the Dachlyds(17) which, according to my brother, could easily have escalated into an interplanetary war.”

Tebok nodded. He knew about the incident. The planet Gemaris V was in a star system fairly close to the Neutral Zone – in galactic terms – and its inhabitants, as well as their planetary neighbours, the Dachlyds, were know for their stubborn and aggressive nature. Getting them to agree about _anything_ must have been an impressive feat and spoke highly of the diplomatic skills of the human officer.

“But that’s not the only reason, is it?” he asked quietly. “There’s more behind this, isn’t there?”

“Isn’t there always?” tr’Khellian replied with a tight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You have read the crew manifest of that ship, haven’t you?”

Tebok nodded. “They have people on board that can prove useful for the long-term plans, I assume.”

“ _Au’e!_ (18)” tr’Khellian said emphatically.

Tebok gave the matter some thought. “One of the Vulcans or the Betazoid?” he then asked.

“ _Half_ -Betazoid,” the Praetor corrected. “There might be others, too. I won’t know until I’ve met them in person.”

“Which would put _you_ at great risk… on several different levels,” Tebok warned. Not that tr’Khellian wouldn’t know _that_. But doing so made _him_ feel better.

The Praetor shrugged. “I know. It can’t be helped. But I’m not completely helpless, as you know; and I’ll take Aidoann with me, just in case. That has to be enough.”

It wasn’t, not even taking t’Liu’s unparalleled skills in unarmed combat into consideration, and they both knew that. But they didn’t have any other choice. The stakes were too high.

“Anything else _I can_ do to help?” Tebok finally asked.

Tr’Khellian gave him another one of those tight smiles. “ _Au’e!_ You can keep the _Tal Shiar_ off my back. Even if it means ridding yourself of your second-in-command. It might come to that, you know. T’Radaik keeps her retainers on a very tight leash.”

Tebok nodded unhappily. “I know. And I will act without hesitation, if I have to. It would still be a shameful waste, though. Tr’Annwhi is a very competent officer. I would hate to lose him.”

“Your loyalty towards your subordinates in amendable,” the Praetor said coldly. “Make sure it won’t clash with the loyalty you owe to our House. Now, leave me alone! I need to think.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In her underground office, stated in the otherwise fairly insignificant town _i-Ramnau_ on _ch’Rihan, Khre’riov_ (19) Jaeih i-Mnaeha t’Radaik was pondering over the latest report of her subordinates with a disapproving frown on her flawless face.

The current Deputy Director of the infamous _Tal Shiar_ was rather young for such an important position. A position that she had achieved due to her high intelligence, diligent work and a ruthless nature that counted as exceptional even among _Tal Shiar_ officers who’d made ruthlessness an art form.

A ruthlessness no-one would have expected from her at first sight.

She was the classical Vulcanoid beauty rarely found among the _Rihannsu_ in these days, after millennia of being separated from the main gene pool of the mother race: tall, whipcord thin, with broad shoulders and small, firm breasts. Her face was just a hint sharp-featured with high, exotic cheekbones, a fine, proud scimitar of a nose, very delicate forehead ridges and wide, deep blue eyes.

She had a thick mane of jet-black hair, which she wore long, in blatant disregard of military regulations, twisted into a tight knot on the top of her head. But, of course, regulations were for the regular military. A high-ranking officer of the _Tal Shiar_ could expect allowances, unless he or she was assigned to a starship on active duty.

The same was true for wearing a military uniform. T’Radaik never wore one if she could avoid it. The current uniform tunics were drab and shapeless, with their exaggerated shoulder pads; the shortened uniform trousers an insult to anyone with the slightest hint of a refined taste, and the boots reminded her of the ancient rubber footwear Terran fishermen had used while on sea, centuries ago.

She preferred the form-fitting black _Tal Shiar_ uniform with its versatile utility belt, in which one could store just about everything, from an astoundingly broad scale of weapons through scanning devices and data rods down to emergency rations. Her utility belt was currently draped over the left arm of her chair, and she was wearing tailor-made, low-heel black boots to her uniform.

A low, melodic sound – audible for keen Vulcanoid ears only – alerted her to an incoming call.

“ _Ta’rhae!_ ” she said softly, and the virtual screen obediently popped up in front of her.

She allowed herself a faint, content smile. These holographic screens were relatively new technology; an achievement in which the _Rihannsu_ had managed to beat Federation science. They were handy and amazingly accurate; as if her assistant, K’haeth t’Viaen, had been sitting across her desk, instead of ‘holding the fort’ for her in the capitol, as the Terrans would say.

“ _Hanfiv’ran!_ (20)” she said.

“ _Daise’riov_ (21) tr’Tal wants to consult you, _Khre’riov_ ,” t’Viaen reported dutifully, her voice and her expression carefully neutral.

Nonetheless, the warning came through with utmost clarity.

The _Daise’riov_ was the Director of the _Tal Shiar_ , bearing the same military rank as t’Radaik, but he was a generation older and one position higher up. Basically the most powerful man of the Empire; the only one who could order t’Radaik around. Which, being an intelligent man, he rarely did. He knew she was best when left to work independently.

This was an exception, and like all unexpected events, it made her extremely wary. As she wasn’t aware of having made any mistake, her superior probably wanted an update. A personal one; one that could not been overheard. So she’d have to go to the capitol. No channel was secure enough for the things they discussed in private.

“See to it that my meetings get rescheduled,” she ordered her assistant, but something in the younger woman’s non-expression startled her. “What is it?”

“You won’t need to leave, _Khre’riov_ ,” t’Viaen said, her face unusually pale for somebody who worked for the Deputy Director of the _Tal Shiar_ and was privy to things that would make strong men quake in their boots. “The _Daise’riov_ has already left by his own vessel and will arrive in _i-Ramnau_ shortly.”

T’Radaik felt her stomach clench painfully. This was a first. As far as she knew tr’Tal had never left Headquarters before just to check on one of his subordinates. Which was the reason why she’d chosen to establish her own centre of activities in _i-Ramnau_ – aside from the act that she’d grown up in the town and knew it inside out. It gave her a feeling of safety – as much as it was possible on _ch’Rihan_.

And now tr’Tal was coming here. T’Radaik still wasn’t aware of any mistake made in recent times; but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be anything her superior would see as a mistake. The higher one had risen in the ranks of the _Tal Shiar_ , the deeper and more abrupt the fall could be, should one have lost the trust of one’s superiors.

Well, that couldn’t be helped now. She’d learn what this was about as soon as tr’Tal arrived and not a _siuren_ (22) before.

“ _Mnekha_ (23),” she said, dismissing her assistant who couldn’t have done anything to help her, sitting thousands of miles away in the capitol as she was – and needed there.

Then she instructed the computer to alert him as soon as the _Daise’riov_ arrived and reached for the reports again. Whatever would happen in the next hours, she still had work to do.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In many things _Daise'riov_ Che’srik Tal was very different from his fellow _Rihannsu_. To begin with, he belonged to the small minority of ranking military officers who hadn’t come from a noble House. He had worked through the ranks to reach his current position on his own, which few officers could say about themselves.

Nor was he ashamed of his simple origins. Although he had earned the privilege of founding a House of his own (which he did) and was therefore entitled to the ennobled version of his name (it would have been Che’srik ei-Brel’kar tr’Tal then) he never bothered to use it. When asked – and few people were foolish enough to do so – he simply answered that the old name had been good enough for his father and grandfather and it would serve _him_ just fine, too.

He was also one of the very few who used their family name in their dealings with foreigners. His family followed a small, isolationist philosophical school that stated that one’s call-name was the essence of one’s personality and thus it should be kept within the closest family, and he frequently quoted this axiom.

In truth, he didn’t base his decision on this philosophy at all. Tal was a short and easy name, simple and unburdened. Che’srik, on the other hand, was a name from ancient legends, and with such names came always a great responsibility, with which he didn’t want to burden himself. Besides, most people (even the average _Rihannsu_ ) couldn’t pronounce it properly; and false pronunciation always tended to attract bad luck to one’s name.

Yes, he was a slightly bit superstitious, like most people originating from the Lesser Meres, thank you. It was nobody’s business, was it?

The one thing in which he _wasn’t_ different from his fellow _Rihannsu_ was his looks. The man who entered t’Radaik’s office was the typical Vulcanoid male from the previous century; before the beginning of the genetic experiments that, in the end, resulted in the development of the distinctive, V-shaped forehead ridges that emphasized the arched eyebrows of the two most recent generations.

In tr’Tal’s youth _Rihannsu_ isolationism had not yet gone far enough to create visible physical differences from the mother race, just to make a point. And, unlike most career officers, he refused the surgical alterations later on.

“What counts is within,” he used to say. “I don’t need cosmetics to show that I’m not a bloodless grass eater from Vulcan. My deeds speak for me.”

Since _that_ was very true, after a while his superiors left him alone. And when he’d risen to the chair of the Director of the _Tal Shiar_ no-one could tell him what to do ever again.

No-one would _dare_.

He came into t’Radaik’s office in civilian clothes and without ceremony: a tall, willowy male in that indefinite age all Vulcanoids showed after growing out of their first youth yet before entering the final phase of their natural lives. 

T’Radaik happened to know that he’d passed a hundred and thirty-five – counted in Federation Standard, which even the _Rihannsu_ had taken over, as the two homewords had different rotation cycles and because all other races did the same; it made it easier to deal with each other – but by the sight of him, he could have been of any age between eighty and a hundred and eighty.

His short, curly brown hair was barely greying, but his narrow face did show that elusive hint of hardness often seen by people beyond their first century and that had nothing to do with the person’s nature or actual job. His deep-set eyes were hazel and very observant, with only a few fine wrinkles in the corners.

T’Radaik rose in respect when she saw him enter.

“ _Daise’riov, aefvadh_ (24),” she said politely. “Your presence honours me.”

“And makes you extremely uncomfortable, no doubt,” Tal replied in his typical, direct manner. “No need for that; this is not an investigation. I merely wanted to discuss our current problem with you in private; and knew the risk of being overheard would be much lesser here than in the capitol,” he gave her a grim smile. “It does have a distinct disadvantage being surrounded by highly competent, ruthless spies, don’t you think?”

Her training – and having grown up in a very formal patrician family – prevented t’Radaik from deflating in relief like one of those decadent Terran field mattresses when punctured. (How such a race of decadent hedonists could have risen to a leading position within the Federation was still beyond her.)

This was just business as usual, then. Good. With work she could deal. In her work she always excelled. That was how she’d reached her current position.

Their _current problem_ was the planned conference on the Federation side of the Neutral Zone, of course. The so-called _trade negotiations_ House _s’Khellian_ had managed to manipulate the _Tricameron_ into joining.

She knew, of course, that it had been merely an excuse. House _s’Khellian_ had been subtly working towards closer ties with the mother race since the Tomed Incident – and the most recent, unprovoked and brutal attack from a third, so far unknown party, had given them the chance to make their first move.

It was a dangerous precedence, but the _Tal Shiar_ had to be careful with their counteraction. M’ret, the _hru’hfirh_ of House _s’Khellian_ , had just risen to the office of _Daisemi’in_ – the Terrans translated it as proconsul – an office that had not been filled for a very long time and the purpose of which was to balance things between the Senate and the Praetorate, giving him special powers no politician had possessed for at least a hundred years. 

With the additional influence of his wealthy and ancient House, that made tr’Khellian a dangerous adversary. Perhaps the most dangerous one since the rise of the _Tal Shiar_.

Knowing that t’Radaik understood their precarious situation, Tal simply sat down to her desk.

“Show me the reports,” he said.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Millions of miles away, on the second homeworld, _ch’Havran, Daisemi’in_ M’ret ei-Leinarrh tr’Khellian – known to his selected few Federation contacts simply as Proconsul M’ret – was standing on the balcony of his family’s ancient home in the _Eilairiv_ mountains and looked down at the purple meadows of _Airissuin_. The sight of the untamed beauty of his home always helped to set his mind at ease, enabling him to order his thoughts into tight patterns that allowed him to see the bigger picture.

If ever, he really needed to stay sharp and attentive right now. The plans towards which his House had been working since the first contact with the Federation two hundred years ago had finally begun to move. Any mistake now, no matter how small or insignificant-looking, would be fatal.

Because his enemies, the old rivals of House _s’Khellian_ , were watching, too, waiting for their choice to bring his family down. Some of them, like House s’Radaik, had been waiting for centuries. The _Rihannsu_ were a patient people. Patient and long-living.

And then there were other enemies. The _Tal Shiar_ and its plebeian yet highly dangerous Director above all else. Tr’Tal had been the stoutest defender of the isolationist policy and the steadiest voice that called for war against the Federation, ever since Éodouin had lost the flagship of the _Galae_ (25) to the Terran Kirk and his Vulcan First Officer, Spock.

Éodouin had been stripped of her rank for that tactical error – and of her name, too, never to be spoken again, because her enemies (House _s’Radaik_ before all) had managed to present her mistake to the Praetorate as an act of treason.

House _s’Khellian_ had not interfered on her behalf; doing so would have brought their ruin as well. Tr’Tal, with the blind loyalty of a plebeian, did not understand the subtle rules of the power game. He still blamed the Federation as well as House _s’Khellian_ for Éodouin’s fate.

Tr’Khellian wondered if t’Radaik knew that she, too, was likely considered by tr’Tal as an enemy, together with her entire House. She probably did.

An understandable mistake from one lowly born, but dangerous on a much wider scale if that person rose to great power and still followed a personal vendetta. As the Director of the _Tal Shiar_ tr’Tal could – and most likely _would_ – sabotage the negotiations. Or, at the very least, he would try… and that had to be prevented, at any costs.

It would be a foolish act that could harm the Empire greatly, but the Rihannsu – unlike their Vulcan cousins – were a passionate people. Tr’Tal would work against any possible cooperation with the Federation with the same single-minded intensity that had enabled him to found a House of his own and to rise in power like no-one of common birth had done for a very long time.

He was a capable man and an exceptionally strong-willed one. M’ret regretted not having him as an ally. But everyone had the right to follow their own interpretation of _mnhei’sahe_ , even if it resulted in complete ruin. M’ret was determined to see that it would be tr’Tal’s ruin, not that of his own House.

A barely audible shuffling of feet alerted him to the arrival of his personal assistant, a petite, dark-haired beauty with the liquid eyes of a Terran deer and delicate hands that could kill a grown man in thirty different ways in half a _siuren_.

“ _Ie_ , Arrhae?” he asked, a little impatiently.

She wouldn’t disturb his thinking process, unless something of importance had happened. She handed him a holographic notebook.

“The newest reports, _Rekkhai_ ,” she said in her low, melodic voice. “The _Ra’kholkh_ has crossed the Neutral Zone and established visual contact with the Federation flagship. No effort of communication has been made so far, from either side.”

“Estimated time of physical contact?” M’ret asked.

“Six standard days sixteen hours, _Rekkhai_ ,” she replied. “The _Enterprise_ approaches Starbase 39-Sierra at high warp. Save any unexpected delays, they’ll come into physical contact within the week.”

M’ret nodded thoughtfully. Things were going according to plan so far; but the real gambit wouldn’t start until his brother was allowed to set foot on the Starfleet ship. In any case, at the moment there was nothing he could do to speed up things in this particular corner of the game board. He could afford to turn his attention to the long-term efforts that still needed some refined detail work.

“Have you contacted _Deihu_ Pardek?” he asked.

Arrhae nodded. “Only a regular check, of course. Things are going according to plan on his end as well. The ship will be launched at the appointed time. Otherwise he chose to lie low for a while, as to not draw too much attention.”

“ _Llilla’hu_ (26),” M’ret said. “Keep him under tight surveillance, just in case. He appears too eager for my comfort; and he’s been far too visible lately. Go now and send me in N’vek. It’s time we begin planning the next move.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translation of Rihannsu (Romulan) terms:**  
>  (1) _Ra’kholkh_ = Avenger, a popular name for Romulan starships  
>  (2) _hwaeyiir_ = the flight bridge of a starship, as opposed to the _oira_ , the battle bridge  
> (3) _Fvillaih_ = Praetorate (see: _Fvilla_ =Praetor)  
>  (4) _Rihannsu_ = Romulans (one Romulan person is called a _Rihannha_ )  
> (5) _Lloann’mrahel_ = the Federation (literally: “those from there”)  
>  (6) _ch’Havran_ = Remus, the less important one of the twin homewords. Romulus is called _ch’Rihan_  
>  (7) _Tricameron_ = the legislative-executive body of the Romulan government, consisting of the Senate and the Praetorate  
>  (8) _Rekkhai_ = Sir  
>  (9) _Hrafirh’rau!_ = Let me/us see it!  
>  10) _Ta’rhae!_ = Screen on!  
>  (11) _Ri’lae fv’htaiell, Erei’riov_ = the Romulan equivalent of “Take the conn, Subcommander!”  
>  (12) _Ssuaj-ha!_ = Understood! – as addressed to a superior  
>  (13) _Deihu_ = Senator (literally: Eldest)  
>  (14) _Auethn!_ = Advise me!/Inform me! (literally: answer the question)  
>  (15) _Kll’inghann_ = the Klingon people  
>  (16) _Lloan’na_ = slang for “the Feds”  
>  (17) Canonically, this event happened several seasons later; I moved it forward to prove Picard’s diplomatic skills.  
> (18) _Au’e!_ = Oh, yes! (empathically, as opposed to the simple “Yes”, which would be _Ie_ )  
> (19) _Khre’riov_ = commander-general  
>  (20) _Hnafiv’ran!_ = Let me hear it!  
>  (21) _Daise’riov_ = Chief Commander  
>  (22) _siuren_ = minute  
>  (23) _Mnekha!_ = good, satisfactory, correct, as said from superior to inferior. In this case it means “All right!”  
>  (24) _Aefvadh!_ = Be welcome!  
>  (25) _Galae_ = Fleet, most specifically space fleet. _Lloannen’galae_ = Federation fleet or battle group.  
>  (26) _Llilla’hu_ = That will do.


	4. The Gathering Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Andorian trivia is based on the DS9 relaunch series. Commander Thelin is a canon character from the Animated Series. His background is based on book canon.  
> The details about the Tomed Incident are taken from the Memory Beta website. And yes, I know that a certain Klingon isn’t supposed to visit the _Enterprise_ just now, but we’re  almost in Season 2, and I needed a canon representative of them. Sort of.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 04 – THE GATHERING STORM**

“What do you know about the Tomed Incident, Captain?” Commander Billings leaned forward in his hoverchair as if he’d wanted to glare down Picard on the other side of the desk.

They were sitting in the captain’s Ready Room, having a private conference. Only Riker, Data and Troi were attending – and the inevitable Lieutenant Tuvok, of course.

“What every Starfleet officer knows, I suppose,” Picard refused to be intimidated by the irascible security expert. “It was a terrible confrontation that cost us thousands of lives. It also led to the signing of the Treaty of Algernon, which banned Federation research into any cloaking devices – or the use of them, should we get them on other ways. _And_ it led to the withdrawal of the Romulan government from interstellar affairs until our recent encounter with the new Warbird-class Romulan ship, was investigating the destruction of both our _and_ their outposts.”

“That is correct,” Billings admitted reluctantly. “Although a somewhat simplified version of the truth.”

“I’m sure Commander Data will be able to provide us with the necessary details,” Picard replied with a grim smile.

“Certainly, sir,” the android’s yellow eyes turned vacant as he accessed his database. “The Tomed Incident was a ruthless act of terrorism early in the year 2311. History records that this incident costs many thousands of Federations lives – the exact number is still unknown, as all crew manifests had been destroyed. It started with Romulan Admiral Avente’er tr’Vokar – an extremist within the Romulan Imperial Fleet – ordered his ship, the _Tomed_ , to be abandoned by all but a skeleton crew of six. From there he set course to the Foxtrot Sector in Federation space…”

“Emitting a false ID-signal, so that the Federation outposts believed it to be a Corvellian freighter, since it never came into visual range,” Lieutenant Tuvok supplied.

Data nodded and went on as if he hadn’t been interrupted at all. He didn’t have an ego to be bruised, and Picard had been grateful for that fact repeatedly during last year.

“Upon reaching their destination, the _Tomed_ impacted with an asteroid base,” the android explained, “and its quantum singularity drive caused a massive explosion, due to the fact that the singularity containment was lost while the warp field was still active, disrupting space-time throughout the sector and wiping out dozens of asteroid bases and at least one starship, the USS _Agamemnon_.”

“Several other ships in close proximity of the Foxtrot Sector suffered damage by the shockwave,” Lieutenant Tuvok added. “Including the USS _Excelsior_. Aboard which I was serving as a junior science officer at that time. As the Commander mentioned, countless lives were lost; from the sector itself only the USS _Enterprise_ -B escaped in one piece.”

“It is still hard to believe that somebody would commit such a heinous act,” Troi said softly. “And at the cost of his own life and those of his men, too!”

“Romulans consider dying for the good of the Empire an act of honour,” Billings commented dryly. “Vokar hoped to prompt a war between the Federation and his own people. He was a chauvinist, with long-standing imperialistic stances. And he nearly succeeded, too. Had the Klingons not given up their neutrality and sided with our forces, we wouldn’t have been able to make the Imperial Fleet retreat from our borders.”

“Which they did, recalling all of their diplomatic missions and citizens, effectively isolating themselves on the astropolitical scene,” Data finished. “As of Stardate 41986.0, that was our encounter with Commander Tebok’s Warbird, the Federation had not had contact with the Romulans for fifty-three years, seven months and eight days. That means…”

“Thank you, Mr Data, that will be enough,” Picard interrupted; then he turned to Billings. “Well, Commander, now that we’ve learned every available detail about the Tomed Incident, are you going to tell us what does this tragedy have to do with our current mission?”

“I just wanted to make you understand what kind of people you’ll be dealing with, Picard,” Billings replied tiredly. “And why is it necessary to remove all crewmembers related in any way to the Tomed Incident from this ship. The situation is too potentially dangerous to take personal sensitivities under consideration.”

“They’ll be restricted to their quarters,” Picard reminded him.

Billings shook his head. “That won’t be enough. Not for me, and certainly not for the Romulans. By all due respect for Counselor Troi’s insights, allowing such people to remain on board might give the Romulans the excuse to withdraw from the negotiations. We cannot afford that. The trade routes in question could serve as shortcuts to an asteroid field unusually rich in dilithium that is right at our border of the Neutral Zone but still within it. Getting safe access to them would mean a great deal to the interstellar traffic.”

“In other words: we have to keep the Romulans in a cooperative mood, and even if they do sign the trade agreement, the ships travelling those routes would have to do so with their shields at maximum and their phaser banks running hot,” Riker summarized.

“Exactly,” Billings replied. “And _that_ would be the best case scenario. The Romulans have already made concessions by agreeing to the presence of a Klingon observer; so it’s our turn to compromise now.”

“What Klingon observer?” Troi asked in surprise.

“The Special Emissary of Chancellor K’mpec himself,” Lieutenant Tuvok answered. “She’s fairly young but is said that the Chancellor has high hopes for her.”

“The Klingons are sending a _woman_ to represent their interests?” Riker asked in understandable surprise.

As much as Klingon women were respected as family matriarchs and some of them even were excellent scientists or fierce warriors, they rarely filled representative functions in their people’s dealings with foreigners. Chancellor Azetbur in the twenty-third century had been the sole exception so far. 

“Not all Klingons are chauvinistic brutes, Commander,” Lieutenant Tuvok replied calmly. “Chancellor K’mpec in particular counts as a very progressive leader, despite his duty to protect tradition.” 

“In any case, the situation will be volatile enough as it is,” Billings said impatiently. “Those crewmen on my list have to go, Picard.” 

“Perhaps a temporary transfer to Starbase 39-Sierra would do, Captain,” Lieutenant Tuvok intervenes smoothly before the argument could have run another fruitless circle. “Only for the duration of this conference, of course. That would give them something useful to do, instead of being practically imprisoned in their quarters and… I believe the word is _moping_ about the injustice of it. Besides, Commander th’Valrass of Starbase 39-Sierra always complains that they are hopelessly understaffed. It would be a mutually advantageous arrangement.” 

“That could work,” Picard allowed grudgingly, still reluctant to admit that any single one of his crew would do anything to sabotage the negotiations. “See to it, Number One.” 

“Aye, sir,” Riker added the problem to the To-Do-List stored in his PADD; it was rapidly becoming a very long list, measured in astronomical units. “Who else aside from the Romulans and the Klingon woman can we expect?” 

“The list is not yet complete, but the company seems illustrious already,” Billings replied, clearly unhappy about the decision of putting too many valuable eggs in the same basket. “The following ambassadors’ presence has been confirmed,” he accepted a PADD from Tuvok and read out the names. “Dr. Seth Mendoza from Earth. T’Pring from Vulcan. Reittan Grax from Betazed. Kirim Dreii-Rall from 114 Delta IV. And Carivretha zh’Thane from Andor. Not to mention Special Emissary K’Ehleyr from the Klingon homeworld, of course.” 

“Zh’Thane?” Picard echoed with a frown. “Isn’t she still busy negotiating between the Gorn and the Kzinti? I thought that was top priority.” 

“It is,” Billings replied. “This, however, is more important. Zh’Thane was called back because she’s currently the best; plus she’d be able to deal with the commanding officer of the Starbase better than any of us. Andorians are a tricky bunch.” 

“And who’s going to take over the Kzinti-Gorn problem?” Picard asked. 

“Why, Kyle Riker, of course,” Billings answered with a shrug. “He’s _almost_ as good as zh’Thane. Someone who faced down the Tholians will be able to deal with a bunch of aggressive cats and reptiles, respectively.” 

Troi and Riker exchanged looks of profound relief. Picard didn’t blame them- He knew that Riker hadn’t spoken to his father for years, and as skilled a negotiator as Lwaxana Troi might be, the Romulans probably wouldn’t react well to her eccentricities. Like many Betazoids, especially the strong telepaths among them, she was brutally honest, to even out the fact that he always knew what other people were thinking. It was a common courtesy on Betazed, but some “blind-heads”, as they nicknamed the non-telepathic races, took this as an insult. 

God only knew how the Romulans would react if she told them in their faces that they were lying. Describing in minute detail _what_ they were lying about and deducing with frightening _why_ they were doing so. No, it was much better to have the perhaps less talented but well-mannered Reittan Grax at the negotiation table. 

Besides, Grax was the director of the biennial Trade Agreements Conference held on Betazed, which made him the most logical choice. As a prominent Betazoid official, he could also hope to deal with any Romulan diplomat on even terms. 

Keeping the balance between the Romulans and T’Pring of Vulcan, the most formidable diplomat of that planet since Sarek’s partial retirement, would be difficult enough. And that without the Deltan, whose pheromones would drive half the ship crazy, even if he consciously suppressed them – _and_ without the Klingon observer. 

Suddenly Picard felt profound gratitude that Carivretha zh’Thane had been called back from the Gorn-Kzinti negotiations. _This_ conference promised to be several magnitudes worse, and the Andorian _zhen_ could deal with just about everything. 

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
** _Captain’s Log, Stardate 41998.7  
Jean-Luc Picard recording_

**_We have arrived to our destination and are now maintaining stationary orbit above Starbase 39-Sierra._ **

**_The eighteen crewmembers Commander Billings wanted to leave the Enterprise for the duration of this conference have been temporarily transferred to the Starbase – with the exception of Lieutenant Worf. Despite all other considerations, I need my tactical officer on board, in case the Romulans have less peaceful intentions than it seems._ **

**_Commander Billings wasn’t happy with my decision, stating that his aide, Lieutenant Tuvok, was full capable of taking over for Mr Worf. I don’t doubt it; Vulcans are as reliable as antigravs and twice as indestructible. But Mr Worf knows the ship inside out, working shifts in Engineering regularly, and that is an advantage that could decide between life and death._ **

**_So he stays. I’ve taken full responsibility for any potential consequences, although I’m fairly certain that there will be none. Mr Worf gave me his word, and he’s a man of honour._ **

**_Some of the diplomats assigned to the conference have already arrived at Starbase 39-Sierra. Aside from those named by Commander Billings, we have Shondar Zhorkin from Tellar, T’Sedd from Rigel V, Meldir from Benzar, Cino Desdin II from Tiburon, Vadosia from Bolius and a representative of Sauria whose name I won’t even try to pronounce. Even the Antosians signalled their intention to participate – more out of concern about the new, unknown enemy than for other reasons, as their technology no longer depends on dilithium._ **

**_We are still waiting for the arrival of Ambassadors zh’Thane and T’Pring from Vulcan. Of the Romulans, there has been no sign so far, but the Klingon observer, Special Emissary K’Ehleyr, is due to arrive within forty standard hours, and I’m sure she’ll be on time. She’s said to have travelled in a Class 8 Probe once when it was urgent, and this conference is something she wouldn’t miss by being late._ **

**_I just hope things will go well. The mixture promises to be explosive. Picard out._ **

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Starbase 39-Sierra was one of the old border outposts, established in the early 23rd century, with the explicit purpose of watching the Neutral Zone and coordinating the work of the other, smaller, asteroid-based outposts along the border line. 

Due to this function, it was an orbital base; one of the early Spacedocks, similar in construction to the later, huge space stations, but less than a tenth of their size. Basically, it looked like an oversized blue mushroom with a thin stem, hanging in stationary orbit above an inhabitable ringed planet. 

The destruction of the other outposts left Commander Thelin th’Valrass with an interesting problem. 

Although capable of providing for 25.000 inhabitants, Starbase 39-Sierra had always been run by a skeleton crew of 300-some people. Its main function was to be very visible for the Romulans, potentially glaring at them across the Neutral Zone, while the actual defence forces, the quick and deadly swarms of Tennet-12 fighters, had been stationed on the asteroid-based outposts. 

Until those got wiped out, that was. 

Now Thelin had to come up for that loss – somehow – until Starfleet managed to grade up his base and fill it with enough personnel, without the Romulans noticing the mass transfer and taking offence. Admitting that the base had been almost empty for longer than a century would have been a severe tactical error. 

Thelin was a _thaan_ , meaning that he belonged to one of the two Andorian genders considered as male by non-Andorians, although the biological reality was more complicated than that. He was also a Thallassan, a member of the dominant Andorian subspecies: more heavily built, darker blue-skinned and with knobbly antennae rising from his rear parietal lobes. As a rule, Thallassans were coastal dwellers and very fond of technology – at least the latter was true for him, too. 

He came from one of the old warrior clans that had served in Starfleet since the foundation of the Federation. Consequently, he liked a good challenge. But he also preferred to be given the means with which to meet said challenge. 

“If we come out of this situation unscathed, I’ll be willing to kiss the hands of Ambassador zh’Thane; I think that’s the correct Terran expression,” he confessed to Riker, who had come over from the _Enterprise_ to discuss the fine details of security with him. They were sitting in Thelin’s office, sipping _katheka_ – a stimulating Andorian drink, similar to coffee – and commiserating about the situation at hand. 

This comment, however, piqued Riker’s interest, who happened to know the Andorian diplomat since his childhood. Even though it was a one-sided thing. 

“Do you have a… problematic relationship with the ambassador?” he asked carefully, because one could never know if an Andorian would take offence when asked personal questions. 

Thelin’s antennae turned towards each other: a shrug. 

“Nothing that should worry you, Commander,” he replied. “Zh’Thane simply despises me for my ancestry, that’s all.” 

“Strange,” Riker, as the son of a diplomat, knew more about other races than the average Starfleet officer, unless they were xenobiologists or something related. “I thought Andorian marriage quads were promised to each other at birth and groomed for the union from early childhood, since your people had only a few years to produce offspring.” 

“That’s true,” Thelin replied. “But it wasn’t always the case; only since our numbers have begun to diminish dramatically. My _thavan_ , after whom I was named, was part-Aenar; you have heard of the Aenar, I presume?” 

Riker nodded. “A subspecies, long thought a myth and rediscovered in the 22nd century, yes. As far as I know, only a few thousand of them are still living in an underground compound on Andor’s largest moon, shielded by a dampening field, in voluntary isolation.” 

“True again,” Thelin said. “At the time of their rediscovery, however, for a while they had regular contact with the main population, and since they were genetically compatible with the rest, sometimes an Aenar was welcomed into an Andorian marriage quad, if only to enrich the gene pool. My _thavan_ ’s _sheva_ was one of those, adding her genetic material to the mix, and that is why my _thavan_ – one of my fathers, as you humans would say – was, genetically, twenty-five per cent Aenar.” 

“I assume he didn’t inherit the blindness, too, seeing that he’d served as a Starfleet officer for decades,” Riker said. 

Thelin shook his head, his antennae bobbing. “No, of course not. However, the _Everte Elders_ took a very conservative turn in the meantime, and when my _sheva_ – one of my mothers – wanted to invite him into their marriage quad to fill the place of a dead bondmate, the _Elders_ refused their permission, saying that it would have been an interracial marriage…" 

“Which, according to Andorian law, has counted as an attempt to damage the gene pool,” Riker finished for him. 

Thelin’s antennae turned towards each other in the Andorian equivalent of a shrug again. 

“It wasn’t the law at the time of my birth, not yet. My _sheva_ , Tali sh’Dani, persuaded her bondmates to perform the _shelthreth_ without the blessing of the _Elders_. All three families were in agreement; still, many have the opinion that such a _shelthreth_ would be invalid. And even though only eight per cent of my genes are Aenar, I’m not considered an Andorian by them.” 

“I’m surprised that Ambassador zh’Thane would adapt this opinion,” Riker said. “I thought she was a member of the Modern Progressive Party and counted as remarkably open-minded.” 

“Even the most open-minded Andorians become ultra-conservative when it comes to the survival of the species,” Thelin explained, his antennae curved and quivering with invisible tension. Otherwise, his inscrutable composure revealed nothing. 

“Is that why you’ve joined Starfleet?” Picard asked, understanding dawning. “Is this your very special way of exile?” 

“Actually,” Thelin answered with a grim smile (a learned facial expression he used for the humans’ sake and that always seemed a bit forced upon his blue face), “I just wanted to follow my _thavan_ ’s example. But it worked out well enough for me.” 

“Your father was First Officer on the USS _Ticonderoga_ , wasn’t he?” Riker remembered. “A highly decorated officer with an excellent service record.” 

Thelin nodded. “Until he got killed in an avalanche during a survey of an unexplored planet, yes. I barely knew him; it happened a year after my birth ceremony. But I always wanted to be like him.” 

“And you succeeded,” Riker could certainly understood if one wanted to prove themselves worthy their father. “Your career is equally successful; or do you think zh’Thane will cause problems?" 

“No,” Thelin said. “She’s a very intelligent politician who always acts according to the best interests of the Federation; or those of Andor, whichever is needed. She would just make _me_ very uncomfortable.” 

Riker pulled a face. “This mission appears more and more appealing by the minute,” he said with biting irony. 

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
As soon as Thelin and Riker had checked and re-checked all security measures, the Federation diplomats already on the Starbase were transferred to the _Enterprise_. Picard had his entire command staff appear in the transporter room to greet them and assigned them to various staff members, so that each of them would have a person to go to if they had any problems or special wishes. 

Reittan Grax attached himself at once to Counselor Troi, of course, but that wasn’t really surprising. He’d been an old friend of Deanna’s late father, Ian Andrew Troi, and had known her since childhood. They hadn’t met each other for years, though, and had a lot to catch up with. 

Shondar Zhorkin was a short, stockily-built, irascible Tellarite who, despite her short temper, had reached highly successful agreements in the last two decades. She was also one of the rare Tellarites who actually got on with Andorians, which explained why she’d been chosen. Like most Tellarites, she was technically savvy and more than happy to follow Mr Argyle, talking shop with the chief engineer a mile a minute. 

T’Sedd of Rigel V was, as she liked to say, as old as the Federation itself – which, of course, was an exaggeration, but not by much. She’d begun her career as one of Sarek of Vulcan’s attachés at a very young age and was steadily approaching the middle of her second century. She still looked like a woman in her best years, though – which, in Vulcanoid terms, she _was_. 

A woman in her best years, with a wicked sense of humour and an intelligence that matched that of her Vulcan cousins. It was strange to meet somebody who looked so much like a Vulcan and yet behaved, by all means and purposes, like a human. Or a Betazoid, just without the telepathy part. In any case, Dr Crusher, who’d been selected to be her aide aboard the ship, found that she liked her a lot. 

The _Enterprise_ had been at Starbase 39-Sierra for a day and a half when the really big cannons began to arrive. 

T’Pring of Vulcan was the first, doing the legendary punctuality of her people due justice. Picard had seen records of her in the historic files of the original _Enterprise_ , of course. Of her planned and failed wedding with Spock and the _koon-ut kali-fee_ that followed. Of Jim Kirk’s apparent (yet faked) death in that ritual combat and Spock letting her go to marry a man of her own choosing. Like Spock, she, too, had become an iconic figure in Vulcan society. 

It was cliché and Picard knew it; but T’Pring looked almost exactly as she had on the records: petite and slender, cool like ice and extremely beautiful. In complete disregard of the current Vulcan fashion, which favoured loose-fitting, ample floor-length robes, she wore a form-fitting, silver-white dress that ended about a hand’s breadth below the knee, with a white feather stola. Her long, jet-black hair, still untouched by age, was braided with strings of white pearls and arranged on her head like a tiara. 

Or like a crown. She was a queen in all but title, and Picard felt a healthy amount of respect forwards her. After all, this was the woman who’d almost pulled through Vulcan’s secession from the Federation some sixty years previously, playing masterfully many of her fellow Vulcans’ mistrust towards other races. And even though she had failed in the end, she had managed to remain politically active and to rise in the rank steadily ever since. 

“Ambassador T’Pring, welcome aboard the Enterprise,” Picard raised his hand to the traditional Vulcan _Ta’al_ gesture of greeting. 

“Thank you, Captain,” she coolly returned the gesture, and Picard could almost physically feel those beautifully tilted, jewel-like eyes measure him, judge him – and probably find him wanting. Then she made a tiny gesture at the man on her side, whom she barely reached to the shoulders. “Allow me to introduce my bondmate, Stonn.” 

Picard eyed with interest the man for whom T’Pring would reject a living legend like Spock. Stonn of Vulcan was tall, athletic and, based on his slanted eyes and high cheekbones, came from a very old family. Presumably somebody who could provide a wife with the same status as Spock would – without leaving her alone for decades while he was exploring space. 

In human terms her decision seemed understandable. In Vulcan terms it had been logical. Spock himself had said so when letting her go. Being married to a living legend would have been a lonely existence, and as much as Vulcans valued solitude, very few of them actually _chose_ to live alone. Even the _Kolinahr_ adepts gathered in monasteries. 

Picard welcomed Stonn properly and entrusted the Vulcan couple and T’Pring’s aides to Will Riker. Despite his open and outgoing nature, the First Officer was actually a shrewd diplomat of his own (it must have been genetic) and a good judge of characters. Plus, he was not easily intimidated. He’d do well enough with Vulcan’s finest, Picard thought. 

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Why would the Vulcans send her, instead of Sarek, though?” he asked, later in the afternoon, sitting with Billings in his ready room to discuss the next moves. 

The crippled man shrugged. “That’s hard to tell. Sarek is the highest diplomatic authority of Vulcan, of course, but he’s beyond two hundred. He does still accept missions, but only short ones, and in increasingly long intervals. There have been rumours that he might be ill – there always are – but that didn’t seem to be the case last time I saw him, less than six months ago. He’s probably just old.” 

“Too old to attend such an important conference?” Picard asked doubtfully. “And why didn’t they send Spock then? He’s taken over much of his father’s diplomatic tasks; plus he’s married to a half-Romulan woman.” 

“That may be so, but he still is considered _persona non grata_ by the Romulans, due to that incident eighty or so years ago,” Billings reminded him. “Officially, they won’t even talk to him, unless there’s a way to kidnap him and give him that trial, almost a century too late. They’ve got long lives… and even longer memories.” 

“Still, T’Pring doesn’t seem the best choice to me,” Picard said. “She’s a known Symmetrist and infamously conservative. I foresee complications, especially as the Romulans are at least as rigid and duplicitous.” 

Billings shrugged. “Well, at least she isn’t the leader of these negotiations. Fortunately, Charivretha zh’Thane outranks her – and all other delegates, seeing that she holds the Andorian seat in the Federation Council. She’s a very bright and very sharp woman who speaks her mind about everything… _woman_ being relative, of course.” 

Picard nodded, well aware of the difference between female beings of any other race and the supposed femininity of the Andorian _zhen_ and _shen_ genders, which was, as Billings had put it, relative. Zh’Thane, as her name prefix revealed, was a _zhen_ – the ones who carried the premature embryo created by their bondmates, gave birth and nurtured the child… and therefore counted as the heads of their families. 

She was also one of the Alpha Quadrant’s top political figures who had a lot of influence in a big part of the Beta Quadrant, too. She was so influential, in fact, that her speeches and stands were often cited as vote-swingers and thus had a strong effect on a vast number of possibilities, from election outcome polls all the way up to interplanetary resource contacts. 

She also had been elected to the position of councillor with a mandate from her people to improve Andor’s trading position with non-Federation worlds. Therefore her presence on this conference was as logical as it was necessary. 

“She’s capable of putting almost everyone in their place,” Picard agreed. “But T’Pring is also highly influential on her homeworld. And she’s twice zh’Thane’s age.” 

“It won’t be easy, for sure,” Billings allowed. “Especially with the Klingons breathing down our neck. As reasonable as Special Emissary K’Ehleyr is, it promises to be a volatile mix.” 

“A reasonable Klingon,” Picard muttered. “This I have to see to believe.” 

“Well, then, come and see for yourself,” Billings glanced at his PADD. “Tuvok has just reported that her courier skiff, the _Ambassador_ , has come into visual range. She flies it herself, so I’m sure the landing will be spectacular.” 

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Apparently, Picard wasn’t the only one who thought that the Special Emissary to the Klingon Empire – because that was what K’Ehleyr actually was, not the other way around as many might believe – deserved a great reception. Practically the entire senior staff had gathered in the shuttle bay by the time he and Commander Billings arrived. 

Dr Crusher was the only exception. She was still insulted because Billings had expressly forbidden Wesley to enter any restricted areas, so she sent Dr Selar instead. Picard didn’t really mind. A Vulcan could deal better with short-tempered Klingons than a human. 

That even Geordi LaForge would come was something of a surprise, though. The chief pilot of the _Enterprise_ had little interest in politics. He was a navigations officer first and an engineer second, and that was more than enough for one person. 

“She comes with one of those new courier skiffs,” he explained at Picard’s questioning look. “I’ve never seen one of them close up.” 

Picard smiled tolerantly. LaForge might be ignorant where politics were concerned, but show him a piece of new technology and he’d run the entire length of the ship for a closer look. 

“Captain,” the duty officer said from where she stood behind her console. ”The _Ambassador_ refuses to use the tractor beams. The pilot states that she won’t lay the fate of her ship into any other hands than her own. What shall I do, sir?” 

Picard gritted his teeth. To the hell with Klingons and their damned pride! But he knew this was a battle he couldn’t win. 

“Let her do as she pleases, Ensign,” he said with a resigned sigh. “We can only hope that she’s half as good as she _thinks_ she is.” 

“Aye, sir,” the ensign replied somewhat doubtfully. “Shuttle bay is depressurizing. Forcefields established. Outer doors are opening.” 

Behind the protective forcefields, the senior officers of the _Enterprise_ watched with interest as the diplomatic courier skiff entered the shuttle bay in a dangerously tight yet elegant curve. It was a small craft of about thirty or thirty-five metres, not typically suited for missions requiring a powerful ship, As it sad down, smoothly like a feather, its slender twin nacelles moved upward, sliding seamlessly into the hollow space designed for this very purpose on both sides. 

It was a practical and elegant solution, LaForge found. 

It took a few minutes for the outer doors to close and the pressure being re-established in the shuttle bay. Then the hatch on the little ship’s heck opened, a gangplank was automatically lowered and out came a tall, willowy woman in a nondescript silver-grey uniform. An elaborate comm badge worn on her breast identified her as a member of the Diplomatic Corps. 

She looked around, identified Picard as the ranking officer and gave him a slightly mocking smile. 

“I great you,” she said in a low, pleasant voice. “I’m K’Ehleyr." 

“ _NuqneH. qaleghneS_ ,” Riker barked; that earned him a surprised look. 

“You speak Klingon, Commander? How unusual!” 

“Not much beyond the words of proper greeting,” the First Officer admitted. 

“Still more than most would bother to learn,” K’Ehleyr looked around again, nodded to Billings – they clearly knew each other – raised her hand to give Dr Selar the Vulcan salute… then her smile deepened. “Hello, Worf. So this is where you’ve been hiding from me!” 

The Klingon tactical officer grunted something unintelligible. It didn’t sound very friendly. Billings looked suspiciously from one to another. 

“You two know each other?” 

“We’ve… met before,” Worf admitted grudgingly. "A long time ago. It is of no significance now.” 

“Nice to see that you still care,” K’Ehleyr said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Haven’t changed a bit,” then she turned back to Picard. “Captain, I took the liberty of picking up two colleagues who were also on their way to this very conference. May I present them?” 

“Certainly,” Picard replied through gritted teeth. He preferred to be informed about diplomatic visitors _well_ in advance. 

K’Ehleyr, clearly guessing his thoughts, just smiled ironically and touched her badge. “You can come out now.” 

There was no answer, but tall two figures emerged from the hatch almost immediately and walked down the gangplank. 

The first one was a slender man in a fairly extravagant, ankle-length tunic that was split to the hips on both sides to reveal a richly embroidered, tight-sleeved shirt and form-fitting trousers worn beneath. He was a head taller than Picard himself and moved with a natural grace. Like a dancer, actually. A narrow river of irregularly shaped spots, like oversized freckles, flowed from his high forehead down both sides of his face and long, graceful neck. 

“Greetings, Captain Picard,” he said with a lilting accent; his voice was soft and musical. “I am Seljin Gandres, Trill ambassador to the Federation.” 

With that, he extended a fine-boned, long-fingered hand in human fashion. His touch felt ice cold, yet his grip was surprisingly firm. He had long, shiny brown hair, down past his shoulder blades – longer than Picard had ever seen on any male, save on Klingons – and he wore it swept to one side, like a cascading curtain of finest silk. His almond-shaped eyes were large and a rich brown and gave the impression of great knowledge and experience, belied by his apparent age and his androgynous looks. 

“I believe you already know my esteemed colleague, Ambassador zh’Thane,” he added, stepping to the side as if he hadn’t wanted to ruin said colleague’s grand entrée. 

“Of course,” Picard said with a relieved smile and bowed from the shoulders in Andorian fashion. “It’s good to see you again, Ambassador.” 

“Likewise, Jean-Luc,” the tall Andorian of an imperial bearing gave him a thin-lipped smile; a studied expression she had learned by dealing with humans. “I thought we’d agreed that you’d call me Vretha.” 

She was as overdressed as her position required to be: wearing a floor-length dress of some shimmering lightweight fabric – a lustrous grey that set off her cerulean skin and matched her eyes. Her feather-like white hair had been styled to make her head look like a negative image _zletha_ flower, with the antennae substituting for the stamen; a blossom with blue petals and a white stem. 

She also clearly belonged to the Talish minority that made only ten per cent of the Andorian population, with her flimsy, stalk-like antennae emerging from the front parietal lobes and extending forward with a slight bend. Compared with Commander Thelin’s dark blue skin, hers seemed a touch greyer, and her whole stature seemingly more fragile. 

Anyone who had ever worked more closely with Andorians knew, however, how misleading looks could be. 

“I will; in informal situations,” Picard replied, referring to her encouragement to address her with the familiar – shortened – for of her given name. “This is not one of those, I’m afraid." 

Zh’Thane’s antennae turned towards each other in the typical Andorian gesture of a shrug. 

“As you wish, Captain. Have all the others arrived already?” she then turned to Billings. 

“All but the Romulans,” the commander replied. 

“Oh, I’m quite sure they’re here already,” zh’Thane said with a grim smile. “In fact, I’d bet that they’ve been her for days, sitting cloaked somewhere nearby, like a _grelth_ in its web, watching and waiting. 

“Waiting for what?” the Trill asked. 

“For the chance to make a dramatic entrée,” zh’Thane explained. 

As if on clue, the intercom beeped. 

“Bridge to Captain Picard,” the voice of Data, currently in charge of the Bridge, called. 

Picard looked up in the direction of the loudspeakers. “Picard here.” 

“Captain, I think you should come to the Bridge,” Data’s voice said. “We’re being hailed.” 

“By whom?” Picard asked. 

Not that it would have been hard to guess. There weren’t many choices, really. 

“By the Romulan Warbird _Ra’kholkh_ , apparently,” the android replied. “At least that’s what they say. They won’t be decloaking until Commander Tebok had the chance to speak to you, sir.” 

“On my way,” Picard said; then he glanced in zh’Thane’s direction. “It appears you’ve been right, Ambassador. The players have all gathered; the game can begin.” 

“The only question is, who will be making the rules,” replied the Andorian thoughtfully. “There are too many unknown factors for the peace of my mind.” 

“Not only for yours,” Picard admitted, heading for the turbolift already, with the diplomats and his senior officers in trail. “We have no other choice than to be aware… and really light on our feet.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A short explanation to Andorian biology (as postulated in the DS9 relaunch novels):**
> 
>  
> 
> Andorians have 4 genders, 2 of which resemble males and 2 of which resemble females. These are called _Thaan, Chan, Shen_ and _Zhen_. This can result in some confusion among outsiders. Sometimes it is difficult to tell what gender an Andorian is on sight. This is especially true as a _chan_ can appear to be feminine and a _shen_ can appear to be masculine.
> 
>  **Also:** There are three races and one sub-race among the Andorians. These are the Thallassan, Talish, Bish'ee and the Aenar (a sub-race of the Bish'ee). With some over-simplification one can say that the Thallassans are the Classic Trek-Andorians, the Talish the ones from TMP and other Kirk-era films and the Bish’ee and the Aenar from “Enterprise”. Now, I usually refuse to accept many things said in “Enterprise” as canon, but this is a good enough explanation. Plus, the Aenar are really cool.
> 
> The description of Ambassador zh’Thane is taken from the DS9 relaunch novel “Gateway: Demons of Air and Darkness”, with small modifications. She isn’t actually a Talish in the novels, as they came out before “Enterprise”.
> 
> A _grelth_ is the Andorian equivalent of a spider.


	5. Voices of Discord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details about the _D’Deridex-class_ Romulan Warbird are taken from the Memory Alpha wiki site.  
>  The conflict between the Kumburanya and Rumaiy Klingons was touched in the novelization of “The Search for Spock” bit never picked up again which, IMO, is a crying shame.  
> Some lines of dialogue between K’Ehleyr and Troi are taken from the Season 2 episode “The Emissary”, with slight modifications to fit the different settings.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 05 – VOICES OF DISCORD**

Data rose from the command chair as soon as Picard entered the Bridge and moved to the Ops station, previously unoccupied since they had been maintaining stationary orbit for days.

“The communication channel is open to your disposal, Captain,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr Data,” Picard stepped into the focus of the visual-communication cameras and raised his voice ever so slightly. “ _Ra’kholkh_ , this is Captain Jean-Luc Picard from the _Enterprise_. I understand that your commanding officer wanted to speak with me?”

The starfield surrounding the delicate shape of Starbase 39-Sierra – still appearing to them like a slender, silver-blue mushroom with a long, delicate stem – warbled briefly, and between them and the Starbase suddenly appeared the ominous, metallic green shape of a _D’deridex_ -class Romulan Warbird. 

A menacing sight that gave its name justice. The Trill ambassador, who clearly hadn’t seen such a monstrum before – and who else but the _Enterprise_ crew ever had? – gaped in awe and made an involuntary step back.

The _Ra’kholkh_ was _huge_ – about twice as long as a _Galaxy_ -class ship of the Federation, which meant a proud 4,400 feet. It had a unique, horizontally split hull design, with a prominent forward section shaped like the beaked head of some immense bird-of-prey. The bulk of its overall size was incorporated in that open-shell, which resembled two separate wings of the same bird, like those of an eagle or a falcon, that met at either side of the warp nacelles, at the tail and the neck, which was connected to the primary forward section, emphasising the ship’s overall bird-like appearance.

A bird that could have swallowed the _Enterprise_ as a whole if it wanted. Or shot her to smithereens with its superior firepower.

For a moment, the image of the Warbird remained on the main screen, as if the Romulans had wanted to demonstrate their strength (which they probably had). Then the image changed to that of the command centre which, as Picard new, was located in the “head” of the bird, and he was looking at the gaunt, hawkish face of Commander Tebok.

“Captain Picard,” the Romulan said languidly. “So we meet again. This is an unexpected pleasure indeed.”

“I rather doubt it, on both accounts, so let’s not waste our time with commonplaces,” Picard replied, knowing he had to show strength if he wanted to be taken seriously. “What can I do for you, Commander Tebok?”

“As you know, we area carrying the delegate of the _Tricameron_ , who’s been empowered to negotiate in the name of the Empire in that conference of yours,” Tebok said. “We are talking about a person of the highest standing and importance, whose safety must be ensured at all costs.”

“Like that of all the other delegates, without exception,” Picard returned, unimpressed. “I assure you, Commander, that no one of them will be endangered aboard the _Enterprise_. This is not the first time that we’d host a diplomatic event, and if we could keep the Anticans and the Selay from eating each other, I’m fairly confident that no one else would come to any harm.”

“You haven’t played host to both Romulans and Klingons at the same time yet, either,” Tebok pointed out, giving Special Emissary K’Ehleyr a look full of cold disdain.

She smiled at him in the same manner, careful _not_ to show her teeth in the process, as it could have been interpreted as a threat, coming from a Klingon.

“True,” Picard admitted. “But for that very reason, security measures have been tightened to match the specific demands of Commander Billings here, who had been assigned to the _Enterprise_ by Starfleet Security for the duration of this mission.”

“And I am sure he’s an excellent theoreticist, seeing as he is hardly good for anything else,” Tebok interrupted with an expression on his face that was a strange mix of pity and disgust. Romulans didn’t tolerate imperfection. “However, I won’t lay the safety of our delegate into the hands of someone who could not even defend himself. Two of my officers will beam over in…” he paused, and they could hear somebody say something in low-Rihan in the background. “In three of your standard hours,” he continued, “to inspect your so-called security measures.”

With that, his image vanished from the viewscreen, replaced by that of the starfield and the exterior of the Warbird again.

Picard gave Ambassador zh’Thane a wry smile. “Didn’t give us the chance of an argument, did he?”

“Romulans rarely do,” the Andorian replied. “However, if they indeed have a high-ranking diplomat on board, they must be really interested in these negotiations.”

“Or they’re simply bluffing,” K’Ehleyr said with an elegant shrug, “and planning to destroy the ship and make even the agreement between Federation worlds impossible.”

“Why would they do that?” the Trill asked doubtfully.

“Because they are _Romulans_ ,” K’Ehleyr replied coldly. “Lying and backstabbing is what they _do_.”

Picard withstood the urge to roll his eyes, but it was a close thing. If there was a constant in the multiverse, that was the ongoing hostility between Klingons and Romulans. For two people who had supposedly been aliens for more than a century, their shared history was full of incidents where the one had fallen into the other’s back – and vice versa.

“I’m sure _they_ say the same things about Klingons,” he replied with deceptive mildness, not wanting to raise the temper of the Special Emissary yet unwilling to tolerate such prejudice from a diplomat, of all people.

“And I’m sure they’re right, too,” K’Ehleyr replied with an amused smile.

The reaction – or rather the lack of it – surprised Picard.

“You are taking this very easily… for a Klingon,” he said.

She gave him one of those mocking smiles again. 

“No doubt because I am only half Klingon,” she explained. “One of my parents was human. But my origins are hardly of importance at the moment, since in there hours you’ll have two Romulan officers on board to deal with. And that, believe me, is not going to be easy.”

“Captain, you can’t allow Romulans to board the Enterprise!” Worf protested, scowling angrily from the mere thought of it. “At least one of them will be a member of the _Tal Shiar_ , and that means a disaster waiting to happen.”

“I hate to agree,” K’Ehleyr said, studiously _not_ looking in Worf’s direction, “but he does have a point, Captain.”

“Nonetheless, we can’t refuse Commander Tebok’s request, no matter how rudely it was presented,” Billings pointed out. “The Federation _wants_ the Romulans to be part of this conference. And we can’t blame them for wanting to be sure their delegate would be safe. We’d do the same if the situation were reversed. After all, our peoples have been mortal enemies since the first encounter.”

“And this could be the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for more than a century,” zh’Thane added. “Jean-Luc, I know you don’t like the idea of Romulan officers on the loose aboard your ship; and frankly, neither do I. But this is a risk we have to take, for the sake of possible future benefits. The _Enterprise_ has been selected for this mission specifically because both sides trust your abilities – and the discipline of your crew – to make this work.”

“I’m flattered,” Picard said flatly; then he looked at his chief of security. “Lieutenant Yar, I leave this in your capable hands. I want those Romulans under constant surveillance. I want to know _everything_ they do on my ship, including the times when they visit the washroom. Understood?”

“Aye, sir,” Tasha replied crisply.

“Work with Tuvok,” Billings added. “He was part of several underground missions beyond the borders, disguised as a Romulan. He knows them better than anyone else.”

“Aye, sir,” Tasha repeated, with considerably less enthusiasm.

She had nothing against Tuvok, who was known for his efficiency and vast experience. But she hated being outdone by outsiders in her own field. For that, she had worked too hard to reach her current position.

“Let’s get prepared, then,” Picard said. “In the meantime, Number One, Counselor, please show our guests their quarters. Everyone else: return to your duties. Dismissed.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Deanna Troi was fascinated by Special Emissary K’Ehleyr. The only Klingon she’d met so far was Worf – save for diplomatic events she’d been attending with her mother, but that was a different matter. And a human/Klingon hybrid was an even greater source of fascination, she secretly admitted.

“I didn't know it was possible for a human and a Klingon to produce a child,” she commented as they were strolling down the corridor towards the VIP quarters.

“Actually, the DNA is compatible - with a fair amount of help. More so than, say, between Vulcans and humans,” K’Ehleyr replied. “But geneticists are still needed. Sometimes I wonder, though, whether the results are worth the effort.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Deanna said.. “My father was human and my mother is a Betazoid.”

“Really?” there was a pleasantly surprised smile on K’Ehleyr’s face as she looked down at the petite counselor. “It was the other way around for me. My mother was human and my father was a Klingon. Granted, not your typical barking, _bat’tleth_ -swinging, bloodwine-slurping barbarian – he was a scientist and came from the _Rumaiy_ minority that actually breeds for brains and manners – but still a Klingon.”

Troi nodded in understanding. Thanks to her family’s standing – they were one of the ancient Houses that had once ruled Betazed as part of the oligarchy – and long diplomatic service, she was more knowledgeable about Klingon society and history than the average Starfleet officer.

She knew therefore that the less numerous Klingon race, the _Rumaiym_ , had ruled the planet for centuries – until the considerably more primitive _Kumburanya_ majority, led by Kahless, had risen against them and overthrown them in a long and bloody war. Kahless had become Emperor of the Klingon Empire – and later an almost religious icon – and the _Rumaiym_ had been forced out of any position of power. They had still been tolerated as scientists, technicians… and spies, though, to the current day, for the simple reason that they alone had the necessary intelligence to do so.

“My father, G’dath, was a geneticist – among the first scientists who volunteered for cooperation with their Federation counterparts – and my mother was a biochemist,” K’Ehleyr added. “They met due to their work and fell in love. So they decided to test their theories by trying to have a child together. They didn’t think of the consequences. Intelligent people can be frighteningly naïve when it comes to the simple reality of life.”

“What do you mean?” Troi asked with a frown.

“Oh, I’m sure you understand,” K’Ehleyr replied. “You must've grown up like I did, trapped between cultures.”

Troi shrugged. “I never felt trapped, to be honest. I tried to experience the richness and diversity of the two worlds.”

“Perhaps you got the best of each,” K’Ehleyr said slowly. They entered the quarters assigned to her and she keyed in a code, waving at Troi to enter first. “Myself, I think I got the worst of each.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Troi tried to sound convincing but had the vague feeling that she wasn’t very successful.

“Oh, yes,” K’Ehleyr said darkly. “Having my mother's sense of humour is bad enough. It's gotten me into plenty of trouble.”

“And your Klingon side?” Troi asked, truly curious now.

“That, I keep under tight control,” K’Ehleyr refused to look directly at her. “It's like a terrible temper. It's not something I want people to see.”

“Everyone has tempers,” Troi offered, rather lamely.

“Not like mine,” K’Ehleyr’s eyes were burning. “Sometimes I feel there's a monster inside of me, fighting to get out.”

Troi nodded in understanding. “And it frightens you.” It wasn’t really a question, but she felt she ought to say _something_.

K’Ehleyr snorted. “Of course it does. My Klingon side can be terrifying, even to me.”

“It gives you strength,” Troi pointed out. “It's a part of you.”

“That doesn't mean I have to _like_ it,” K’Ehleyr replied with a grimace.

“No,” Troi agreed thoughtfully. “No, it does not,” then she broke into a wide grin. “So, tell me: where did you meet Worf before?”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Although not a woman who would panic easily – not as a rule in any case – Tasha Yar was uncommonly anxious when she entered the transporter room to meet her Romulan counterparts. Equally unusual was it for her to take Worf with her; yet this time she did. It might be a risky choice, knowing what Worf thought about Romulans, but it made her feel better.

“Everything ready?” she asked, and Transporter Chief O’Brien nodded.

“Awaiting your orders, Lieutenant,” he said.

Tasha sighed. “Well, it’s no time like the present, is there? Beam them over, Chief.”

“Energising,” O’Brien let his hand glide over the sensor controls of the transporter console.

They could hear the familiar, whirling noise – and in the next moment the columns of shimmering golden light evaporated, revealing two people, one of them in the chequered Romulan uniform, with its exaggerated shoulder pads that made him look a bit like a character out of some 20th century superhero comic, if one ignored the pointed ears.

As if he’d needed to look even more impressive!

Tasha recognized him at once, of course. It was Subcomamnder Thei, the right-hand man of Commander Tebok; she’d seen him on the viewscreen during their recent encounter with the _Ra’kholkh_. However, the image, sitting in his commanding officer’s shadow, clearly hadn’t given him justice.

He wasn’t particularly tall for a Romulan, but well-built and olive-skinned, with even, gaunt features and a slightly hooked nose and with his black hair cropped short in the military fashion all Romulans seemed to prefer. He had light, narrow, observant eyes so pale a brown they almost looked gold; and an intensive, disconcerting stare.

He seemed to be in his late thirties, but could have been anything between thirty and a hundred and fifty, for all the human eye could tell. It was almost impossible to guess the real age for a Vulcanoid – at least for other people.

The woman was – small. Shorter than Tasha by a head, perhaps 5’2”, slim and trim but surprisingly curvaceous. Her brown hair was short-cropped like that of the male officers, buts he wasn’t wearing a military uniform, just a form-fitting black jumpsuit girdled with a utility belt and a sleeveless, loosely-cut tunic over it. 

The fabric of the tunic was very thin and interwoven with some kind of shimmering fibre, which Tasha suspected was a sensor net. She made a mental note to ask Geordi about it; and about the tiny data port implanted behind the Romulan woman’s left earlobe.

At the moment, though, she had to play the friendly – or at least gracious – host.

“Subcommander Thei,” she said in a business-like manner. “Welcome aboard the _Enterprise_. I am Lieutenant Yar, chief of ship’s security. And this is…?”

“Subcommander t’Luin,” the woman introduced herself. She had a deep, cold voice, wide, slanted blue eyes with a prominent V-ridge above the arched brows, and a large, full, almost sensuous mouth.

Tasha’s knowledge about Romulan culture and customs was limited at best, but even she realized that the other woman had revealed her family name. Which even she knew to be highly unusual.

Fortunately, Worf was better informed.

“She’s _Tal Shiar_ ,” he growled. “They don’t use their given name in public.”

One of the woman’s arched eyebrows rose a millimetre higher for a moment.

“Impressive,” she commented languidly; it almost sounded the same as a Vulcan would say _fascinating_. “Your _Kumburanya_ savage actually knows something about our customs. Now I understand why you endure its presence. It’s always tactically sound to be informed about one’s adversaries as thoroughly as possible.”

“It’s also wise to be mindful about one’s health, Subcommander,” Tasha replied, silencing Worf with a quelling glare. “Your head is already dangerously swollen with self-importance; any more and it might burst. Which would be unfortunate. Cleaning brain tissue from the deck carpets is such an unpleasant task… or so Ship’s Services tells me.”

For a moment both Romulans stared at her in stunned disbelief. Then Subcommander Their threw his head back and laughed.

“Well countered, Lieutenant,” he said, with a gleeful side glance at his fellow officer.

Tasha remained unimpressed.

“The warning was for you as well,” she clarified. “Now, if we’ve exchanged enough insults for the time being, perhaps you would like to begin your inspection?”

T’Luin nodded. “I’ll start with the quarters assigned to our delegate,” she announced.

Tasha shrugged. “Certainly; it’s the most logical place to begin – unless _you_ have a different set of priorities, Subcommander,” she added for Thei.

“Oh, no,” the Romulan said with exaggerated politeness. “I’m just here to represent my commanding officer. Subcommander t’Luin is the one personally responsible for the delegate’s safety.”

“Good,” Tasha replied, consciously ignoring the subtle power play going on between the two Romulan officers. “Guest quarters it is. Please come with me.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The VIP-quarters of the _Enterprise_ were located in the best-protected area of the primary hull, right above sickbay – and they were nothing if not generous. In fact, they could have put a suite in a Risan luxury hotel to shame. Each quarters consisted of a spacious living area with a dining alcove and a work desk with its own computer terminal and subspace communications station; a bedroom with a king-sized bed and a walk-in closet; and a bathroom with both sonic and real showers and a Jacuzzi tub.

"These quarters were specifically designed with foreign dignitaries in mind,” Tasha explained. “The environmental controls can provide a wide scale of climatic conditions – including the gravity, average temperature and humidity on Romulus. The suite’s protective forcefield has its own generator, independently from the ship’s main power system. Security lockdown can be initiated by the inhabitant from within, at any given time. The food replicator has been adjusted to the demands of Vulcanoid metabolism and programmed with Romulan dishes – well, the few that are known to us anyway. You’re free to add whatever you want, of course, if the available ones won’t suffice.”

T’Luin examined every feature of the suite with almost Vulcan patience and thoroughness. It took her about two hours. Subcommander Thei showed signs of impatience early on, but Tasha didn’t really mind. She _hoped_ there wouldn’t be any security leaks and glitches, but if there were, it would be better to find them _now_ than being blamed for a possible future mishap afterwards.

“Is this how your diplomats always travel?” Thei asked with obvious disdain in his light tenor voice. “Surrounded by unnecessary luxury? Wasting precious space, while the crew, no doubt, is crowded in mass quarters?”

Tasha didn’t let herself be bothered by the provocation. If the Romulan needed to insult someone, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of taking offence.

“Actually, barracks have been dissolved half a century ago,” she replied calmly. “Each crewmember – or each family, whatever the case might be – has their own quarters. Of course, single officers’ quarters are much smaller and less luxurious than these, but no-one is forced to share quarters with others, unless they want to. Like Andorians, for example, who prefer living in lodges.”

“That,” Thei declared,” is a waste of space.”

Tasha shrugged. “Perhaps. But deep space missions last many years in these times; and we humans need a feeling of _home_ , even while travelling among the stars. So we take _home_ with us; many of us have their families on board, despite the risks. Because our children are our future, and we’d rather expose them to certain dangers than be without them for years.”

“Do you have children?” Thei asked; and when Tasha shook her head, he said disdainfully,” Then what makes you fit to make such statements?”

“Nothing,” Tasha admitted freely. “That’s what my colleagues with families say. I was merely quoting them.”

“These quarters will suffice,” t’Luin interrupted them brusquely. “I’ll inspect your engine room next.”

“That’s a restricted area,” Tasha said. “I’ll have to get the captain’s permission first.”

“Then do so,” t’Luin ordered. “I need to know that your engines are reliable enough to provide the ship with sufficient defensive power in case of an attack.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Tasha contacted Picard, who gave his permission, albeit reluctantly. So they took the turbolift to the secondary hall, where the great engines of the _Enterprise_ were located – and, to Tasha’s surprise, it was Geordi LaForge who greeted them.

“It’s my regular shift in Engineering,” he explained. “Mr Argyle said I was better at entertaining visitors, so here I am. Neat solution with the sensor net integrated in the fabric of your tunic,” he added, turning to t’Luin. “It must come in handy when you want to gather intel unnoticed.”

“Not quite unnoticed, it seems,” t’Luin replied dryly, not the least disturbed by the fact that she’d been caught red-handed… sort of.

Geordi shrugged. “I’m sure most people would be fooled. It’s just…” he tapped his VISOR with the tip of his index finger. “This device translates a wide range of radiation into neural impulses.”

“Seems useful,” t’Luin agreed. “What is its main purpose?”

“It allows me to _see_ ,” Geordi replied with a wry smile.

That statement seemed to genuinely surprise both Romulans.

“You mean, without it you’re blind?” Thei clarified. “How did that happen?”

Geordi shrugged again. He was used to such questions and they didn’t bother him any longer. He’d learned to value the advantages of his unique vision – and to live with the disadvantages. Like the constant headaches, for example.

“I was born that way,” he answered, according to the truth.

He hadn’t expected the reaction of the Romulan, though.

“And your parents let you live?” Thei asked, his disgust unveiled.

“What kind of question is that?” Geordi frowned. “ _Of course_ they let me live, I’m their son!”

“No wonder your race is weak,” Thei declared, clearly repulsed. “You waste time and resources on defective children.”

“That’s what the Andorians said, too, at the Academy,” with a raised hand, Geordi stopped Worf before the Klingon could have lounged at the Romulan subcommander. “Until I bet them in the flight simulator all and sundry, one after another. Now all those physically perfect Andorians serve as lowly ensigns on small scout ships, while I’m a full lieutenant and flying Starfleet’s flagship. I don’t know about _your_ career, but _I_ call that success.”

Tasha suppressed a grin; the Romulan’s angry scowl was too precious for words.

“Now, Subcommander,” Geordi turned back to t’Luin, “I believe you wanted to learn about our power grid and how it would ensure the safety of everyone on board. If you follow me to the status display, I can show you the distribution…”

He walked deeper into the engine room, Tasha and the two Romulans in trail. Worf fell back to keep a close eye on their visitors; especially on Thei, who seemed to enjoy provoking everyone.

“How can somebody look so much like a Vulcan and act like a complete moron?” he muttered under his breath angrily.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the safety of their quarters Stonn of Vulcan looked at his wife of nearly one hundred years with quiet concern; or, at least, with the Vulcan equivalent of it. While Vulcans refused to give in to their emotions – in fact, fought hard all their long lives to control them or suppress them completely – taking a possibly negative outcome of events under consideration was the logical thing to do.

The attempt with which their help – or rather that of T’Pring’s – had been asked for was one that could mean considerable risks for all parties involved. And though Stonn, like most Vulcans, subscribed to the philosophy that the good of the many outweighed the good of the few – or that of a single person – he could not help wishing that said single person wouldn’t be his wife.

No matter how illogical such wishful thinking might be.

“Are you certain that you want to go through with this, _t’hy’la_?” he asked. “This goes against everything you believe in; everything you have ever worked for during your career as a diplomat.”

“Perhaps,” she replied calmly. “But I owe _him_ a serious debt, and my personal honour demands that I help him, since he cannot come in person.”

“Why not?” Stonn demanded. “This is _his_ game; one that would not find many followers on either side. Would it not be only logical for _him_ to meet his counterparts in person, instead of putting _you_ at risk?”

“I am not at risk,” T’Pring answered dismissively. “Not personally, at least. All I risk in this game is my career, which I have put at risk by supporting your Symmetrist actions often enough. Besides, after the better part of the century spent in diplomatic service, retiring from it would not be such a great loss. _He_ , on the other hand, would risk his life, coming here. The _Rihannsu_ are a people with long memories – just like us. And officers fiercely loyal to Commander Éodouin, whose name cannot be spoken in the Empire anymore, are still serving in the _Tal Shiar_.”

Stonn shook his head in dismay. The topic of T’Pring’s original intended, standing so far above him by birth, fame and influence, was still a sour one between them. Jealousy was highly illogical, yes, but it was hard for somebody of common stock like him to compete with a living legend – and one born to the Old Clans at that. Even after a century of being bound to T’Pring in matrimony, he sometimes asked himself if she had ever regretted her choice.

“Those are risks he has created for himself,” he said coldly. “He should not hide behind your back to avoid them.”

“He does not,” T’Pring returned with just a tiny hint of impatience. “He is meeting other prospective allies in a different place right now. You are being unreasonable, husband.”

“No,” he said. “I am merely concerned. And you cannot deny that I have reasons to do so. Should this secret mission of yours be revealed before time, it could lead to a disaster. The _Tal Shiar_ would not hesitate to kill you, together with those of their own they would consider traitors. They would not care that you are merely a substitute for _him_ in the game.”

“Perhaps so,” she allowed, completely unfazed. “But you seem to forget one thing, husband. I am not just a substitute. I have my own role in the game, and if our attempts come to a successful end, many years in the future, I shall be named among those few who have worked on forging a new era for Vulcan. Those who have made Vulcan stronger than it has ever been, since the rising of Surak.”

“And if you fail, you will be dead – all of you – and your families will bear the mark of the traitor,” Stonn warned,

T’Pring waved off his concern with a gesture so small and subtle only another Vulcan would notice.

“We shall not fail,” she replied in icy confidence.


	6. Cometh the Praetor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reconnaissance mission of Selar and Tuvok is book canon, happening in the Lost Era novel “The Catalyst of Sorrows”. It’s supposed to have taken place in 2360.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 06 – COMETH THE PRAETOR**

After a long and thorough investigation that lasted half a day, Subcommanders Thei and t’Luin finally declared the security of the _Enterprise_ “adequate” – with obvious reluctance on Thei’s side – and so there were no obstacles left in the way of the Romulan ambassador’s arrival. Once again, the command staff (minus Worf) gathered in Transporter Room Three to welcome him properly.

Picard had asked Dr Selar to be present, wanting to balance out Lieutenant Tuvok’s influence. Starfleet Intelligence might or might not have their hand in the game, and when it came to deal with Vulcans, the best choice was always to have another Vulcan to do it.

He had also chosen two security officers from Yar’s list to guard the Romulan dignitary. They were both specially trained, with high security clearance; plus they were both Rigellians (at least officially), and Picard hoped that the Romulan would accept them.

“The _Rakholkh_ signals that the Romulan ambassador is ready to beam over, Captain,” Chief O’Brien reported.

During such important events, when not even the slightest mistake was allowed, he always operated the transporter himself. Picard appreciated it. He trusted O’Brien more than anyone else in the engineering crew, with the possible exception of Mr Argyle.

“Very well, Mr O’Brien. Energize.”

The humming sound of the transporter effect filled the chamber, and the golden column of sparkling light on the transporter platform quickly coalesced into the tall, rigidly erect figure of a single man. A man who was quite different from the clichéd images most Federation citizens, even Starfleet officers, usually had in mind about high-ranking Romulan officials.

He was tall, yes, but not overly so – not for a Vulcanoid anyway – and very slim, almost skinny, as far as one could judge by the elegantly draped, dark purple overcoat that he wore in a toga-like manner, with broad shoulders and long limbs.

Instead of the military haircut most Romulans, even the women, preferred in these days, he wore his curly black hair collar-length – in a fashion that emphasized the paleness of his narrow face and his killer cheekbones. His entire face was angular and just a hint asymmetrical, with a rather flat nose for a Romulan and full lips. 

The most unusual, however, were the slightly tilted eyes under the thick, arched brows. They were large and seemed to change heir colour from slate grey through blue with golden highlights to green and back, depending on how the light fell.

All in all, he was an imposing, exotic-looking man who in no way fit the Vulcanoid standard, save for the large, elegantly shaped ears, the tips of which were peeking out of his thick curls. He was also clearly aware of the effect he had on non-Romulans, because he gave them a cold smile and raised a large, fine-boned hand to greet them – not exactly in Vulcan manner, but in a close reminiscence of it.

“I offer you the greetings of the _seiHellirh_ , the _Tricameron_ of the Romulan Star Empire,” he said in a deep, surprisingly rich baritone voice that reverberated in the transporter chamber as if he had been used to speak in much larger rooms.

Perhaps he was. He was a Praetor, after all.

“Captain Picard, I presume?” he added, looking directly at Picard.

He spoke a grammatically flawless Standard, with an accent now only cultivated in a small area of Earth that had once been known as England. Not many people would even recognize it, let alone speak it properly, although it still counted as a sign of highest sophistication. The Praetor had clearly done his homework – and had a good ear for accents.

Picard nodded, and the Romulan continued:

“I am Praetor Llaerh ei-Leinarrh tr’Khellian, representing the ruling body of my people. You may call me Llaerh. Permission to come aboard, Captain?”

“Permission granted,” Picard replied. “Welcome aboard the _Enterprise_ , Ambassador,” and he struck out a hand, curious how the Romulan would react to this Terran custom of greeting.

Tr’Khellian shook his hand without hesitation and without any infantile power play, although Picard knew the Romulan could have crushed his bones effortlessly. Vulcanoids were much stranger than humans, having developed on a world with higher gravity than the earth nor, His naturally higher body temperature also made the Romulan’s touch pleasantly warm and dry.

“Thank you, Captain,” he said with a polite smile that didn’t quite reach his strange eyes. “May I have some personal items beamed over as well? You are free to scan my suitcases, though I can assure you they contain neither weapons nor any toxic substances.”

“Not even Romulan ale?” Picard asked, smiling.

The Praetor’s excellent manners, though probably only a tool to make them relax, were positively refreshing after the rude arrogance of other Romulans. Picard began to warm up to him, which he knew was dangerous, but he felt it hard to resist the man’s icy charm.

Tr’Khellian pulled a disgusted face.

“Oh, by the elements, Captain! Why would I wish to carry such vile brew on me? The only reason to drink _Rihannsu_ ale is the same reason as to drink Saurian brandy: to prove that one _can_. I don’t need to prove myself that way. I would, however, like to make you the gift of a bottle of excellent _lehe’jhme_ wine, coming from my family’s own vineyard. I understand that you appreciate a fine wine and I would like to show you that our people are capable of making more… _civilized_ drinks, too.”

The casual remark revealed that Romulan intelligence must have gathered a great deal of information on Picard; a calculated revelation, most likely. Politicians like tr’Khellian didn’t make such basic mistakes, or they wouldn’t have reached their positions to begin with.

Still, the offer was as polite as it was generous. To Picard’s knowledge very few outsiders had ever got the chance to sample the legendary Romulan wines, while Romulan ale was a highly sought after yet common smuggling item. So he consented to having tr’Khellian’s belongings beamed aboard – not that he’d have had the right to protest; the man was a diplomat with all the privileges that came with his status.

A moment later two medium-sized suitcases, made of some ultralight metal, materialized on the transporter platform. On top of one suitcase lay a string instrument, the Vulcan _ka’athyra_ lyre not unlike and yet subtly different. It was larger and had twice as many strings, which had been cross-stringed in a highly complex way.

“I see you’re also a musician, Ambassador,” Picard said in surprise.

Tr’Khellian gave him one of those tight smiles of his.

“Llaerh, please, Captain. I’m merely an amateur, but I do find that playing the harp helps me think. Fortunately, in this era of soundproof rooms no-one takes offence when I… _think_ in the middle of the night.”

It was a small, calculated joke – again, intended to make them relax around him. The man was good. Dangerously good. Smiling politely, Picard warned himself to remain on the edge. This was an impressive adversary if he’d ever seen one. Underestimating him could prove disastrous.

“Very well… Llaerh,” he said. “I hope you’ll feel comfortable enough aboard the _Enterprise_ to treat us to a small concert one evening. Music is very popular among the crew, and none of us have ever heard a true Romulan instrument.”

“It would be my pleasure, assuming the negotiations allow it… once I’ve adapted to the environmental conditions aboard your ship.” Again, that tight smile.

Picard recognized a subtle hint when he heard one.

“We have prepared suitable quarters for you and whatever aides you wish to take with you, of course. The environmental controls are adjusted to Romulan norm – as far as we are aware of them. Feel free to change them if necessary.”

“Subcommander t’Luin will serve as my aide,” tr’Khellian said. “She is familiar with my needs and will see that they are met. Otherwise, I do not require any additional personnel – save for the guards whom you have already assigned to me, I suppose.”

Picard nodded. “It is standard procedure I’m afraid. Ensigns Daro and Baldor will protect you while you’re aboard our ship. They have been trained for this kind of duty; and I thought you’d be more comfortable with Rigelian citizens than you’d be with humans.”

Tr’Khellian gave the two Vulcanoid security officers a piercing glare; then he nodded.

“Very thoughtful indeed, Captain. Now, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to see my quarters.”

It was a masterful statement – a clear dismissal phrased as a polite request. Picard’s opinion of the Romulan went up another notch.

“Certainly, Ambassador… I mean, Llaerh. Counselor Troi will show you the way,” he gestured to Deanna who gave the Romulan her most winning smile.

“Thank you, Captain, but I prefer to keep my thoughts to myself, at least for the time being,” tr’Khellian replied coldly.

He looked around, seized up the command staff, and his strange, silvery eyes rested upon the impassive face of Dr Selar.

“I’m sure the good doctor won’t mind being my guide on such a short way,” he said.

Selar looked at Picard, and when the captain gave a tiny nod, she stepped out of the line.

“It would be an honour, _Rekkhai_ Llaerh,” she said in flawless High Rihan, to everyone’s surprise.

Everyone’s but Lieutenant Tuvok’s that is. They had shared the mission for which Selar had to learn the language – or rather several dialects – of their estranged cousins, after all.

If tr’Khellian, too, was surprised, he gave no sign of it. He just gave them all a regal nod and followed Selar out of the transporter room. The two security guards grabbed his suitcases and hurried after them.

“Well, Number One,” Picard said to Riker when they were all gone. “This is shaping up to be an interesting mission.”

“Aye, sir.” Riker agreed grimly. “In the ancient Chinese course sense of ‘interesting’, I’m afraid.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Counselor Troi would not be able to read your thoughts, you know,” Selar said to tr’Khellian as they entered the turbolift and she gave the computer their destination. She’s an empath, not a telepath.”

The Romulan snorted. “Of course I know; or do you think I’d have failed to gain proper intel on the people I entrust my life to? There’s no way to tell what stray thoughts or emotions a Betazoid – even a supposedly non-telepathic half-Betazoid – might be able to pick up, and I don’t want to – how is that Terran saying? Oh, yes. I don’t want to lay all my cards on the table just yet. And I’m quite sure your captain doesn’t either.”

“Captain Picard likes to keep his cards close to his chest, if we must overuse that particular metaphor,” Selar agreed. “I am not certain what you are hinting at right now, though.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are,” tr’Khellian stepped closer to Ensign Baldor and glared right into her face. “Why else would he assign a Romulan defector in disguise of a Rigelian citizen as one of my guards?”

“I’m _not_ a defector,” Ensign Baldor said calmly. “And I _am_ a Rigelian citizen. My mother was the _hru’hfe_ of a noble house that fell from grace and had to flee _ch’Rihan_ to save her life. She ended up on Rigel II and entered a Rigelian clan marriage. That’s all.”

“How did you realize she was half-Romulan?” Selar asked, intrigued. “Her speech patterns and body language show now difference from the average Rigelian.”

Tr’Khellian shrugged. “The biochemistry of our homeworld causes very specific olfactory results in our bodies that can be unmistakably recognized, even in those of mixed blood,” he explained in a bored tone.

“You mean you can recognize a fellow Romulan by their _smell_?” Selar clarified in surprise. “But for that you would need… oh, I see. You have heightened senses. I did not know _Rihannsu_ can be so sensitive.”

“Most of us aren’t,” tr’Khellian admitted. “It’s very rare; presumably a genetic quirk, as both my brother and I have them. Not all six of the basic senses, though. Olfactory sense is very strong, and so is tasting – I can analyse the ingredients of a dish by simply taking a bite, which is very practical when you have a good chance of being poisoned at any given time. Hearing and the sensing of magnetic fields are hypersensitive, too. Our eyesight is fairly good but not extraordinary.”

“What about touch?” Selar asked, wondering why the Romulan would leave that particular sense out.

“Touch can be… very unpleasant at times,” tr’Khellian replied, which didn’t make sense at first.

Not until she made a quick mental list of what touch could be used for. _Then_ she understood, and her face went as blank as only that of an utterly shocked Vulcan could get.

He was a _telepath_! A raw one, most likely, as the mental arts had died out on Romulus millennia ago, so he’d hardly find a proper adept to train him. The talent must have resurfaced without warning – _a genetic quirk_ , he’d said, possibly localized to his family, as his brother apparently had it, too – and learning to build shields to protect his own mind must have been rough.

No wonder he didn’t want Counsellor Troi anywhere near!

Selar also understood that such a talent would make him a most desirable target for all his political adversaries. Events like the inhuman research on Levaeri V showed how desperately the Romulans – at least certain circles high in the political hierarchy – wanted to regain what their ancestors had lost on the long journey to their new home.

She would have to keep this information under the tight seal of medical confidentiality. Because if the mental arts could spontaneously resurface within Romulan population…

“Fascinating,” she said languidly. “I would like to discuss this phenomenon with you from a medical point of view, if we can find the time between trade negotiations.”

Tr’Khellian inclined his head in that regal manner again.

“That would be acceptable,” he replied. “I will contact you when the time is right.”

They reached their destination – the section of the habitat deck reserved for senior officers and VIP visitors – and left the turbolift again. Tr’Khellian’s quarters could be easily identified, as Subcommander t’Luin was standing in front of the door with a blank face that would make any Vulcan proud.

“Everything has been prepared and double-checked, _Rekkhai_ ,” she reported crisply. “You may enter at your convenience.”

Tr’Khellian nodded, without bothering to thank her as a Federation official would have. Class differences among the _Rihannsu_ were sharper outlined than on most Federation words. The two Rigelians exchanged meaningful glances, yet Selar remained unfazed. Vulcans, too, found it illogical to thank for things that needed to be done anyway.

“I must return to my duties now,” she said. “Feel free to contact me if you need my assistance. Just ask the computer; you will be patched through, wherever I happen to be at any given time.”

“I am familiar with the working of Starfleet communication systems,” tr’Khellian replied dismissively. “You may leave now, doctor.”

A human officer might have taken offence but Selar found the answer logical. Vulcans didn’t find small talk worth their time, either. So she simply nodded and left, leaving their guest in the competent care of the two Rigelians… and that of his own aide.

The security officers put tr’Khellian’s suitcases into the living area; then they took up positions outside his quarters, right and left from the door. Having a constitution that matched that of their charge, they were more than capable of staying on guard for days with only small breaks.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The Praetor shed his overcoat and slumped into one of the decadent armchairs of the living area, covered with Deltan nappa leather that made it smoother and softer than the bottom of a newborn baby. He felt drained. Keeping his shields up during the short walk on a ship with an unknown number of potential telepaths on board required more effort than he had expected, and now he was feeling the beginnings of a headache.

“This is tedious,” he murmured, clearly annoyed. “I only hope that if we succeed, it will result in better shielding on my part. I have learned to shut the background noise of other minds out early on, but guarding myself against possible telepathic intrusions is eating away on my strength. This is not good. I need all my _afw’ein_ around me for this to work.”

“I might be of better assistance if I knew what are we trying to accomplish, _Rekkhai_ ; apart from the obvious,” t’Luin commented dryly, with the familiarity of a trusted retainer.

No-one else would have dared to ask a s’Khellian – _any_ s’Khellian – a direct question. But her family had served them faithfully for several centuries. She could afford the risk.

Tr’Khellian hesitated for a moment. Perhaps it was time to tell his faithful retainer the truth. Well, part of the truth at least.

“You are with the _Tal Shiar_ ,” he said. “So surely, you are familiar with the Vulcan ritual of _koon-ut-la_.”

She nodded without hesitation. The ancestors of the _Rihannsu_ might have left Vulcan in scorn several millennia ago as a protest against Surak’s Reformation, but they still knew more about their estranged cousins than any of the Vulcans’ Federation allies would think it possible… or be comfortable with. The mental arts might have died out among them, but they kept the knowledge.

“It is a ritual every Vulcan child goes through at the age of seven,” she quoted. “They are taken to a high priestess with their intended, and she fuses their minds in the _koon-ut-la_ ceremony that will, at the proper time, trigger the _plak tow_ , the blood fever, which will then come over them every seven years, as long as their time of fertility lasts. It’s an odd tradition,” she added, “but apparently, there’s nothing in the ritual that can harm a child.”

Tr’Khellian nodded. “Exactly. However, it cannot be told if it wouldn’t harm an adult, either, as there are no records of the _koon-ut-la_ even being performed on adults. Vulcans who have lost their spouses and remarried, or bound themselves to outworldlers, had all been bound in childhood previously.”

“Why is this important for us?” t’Luin asked. “Vulcan rituals rely upon a combination of mysticism, biology and collective consciousness that we can’t even pretend to understand. Our predecessors broke the circle and freed us from the yoke of biological necessity by discarding _koon-ut-la_.”

“True,” tr’Khellian allowed. “And yet as the old gifts resurface sometimes, perhaps it is time for us to re-establish some of the old bonds, too.”

T’Luin’s eyes widened in surprise. “You mean to reconnect with _Vulcan_? Wouldn’t that negate the very purpose of the Sundering?”

Tr’Khellian snorted. “I do not intend to by into their weed-eater philosophy – or their bloodless, ascetic lifestyle. But a connection with Vulcan is a brilliant idea. It could be the excuse for bringing up a new government, with us as the rulers. Unfortunately, Vulcans are so literal-minded that they have to see proof that our races have not drifted apart too much, biologically and mentally, for a future reunification. And I am going to be that proof.”

“By what way?” t’Luin asked, more shocked than she’d ever been in her entire life.

“By taking a Vulcan mate and bond with her in the Vulcan way,” the Praetor replied simply.

T’Luin shook her head in bewilderment. “Why in the name of S’task should you take the risk? Why don’t we just infiltrate them and conquer them?”

Tr’Khellian gave her a disappointed look.

“That is the thinking of the _Tal Shiar_ clouding your mind. When you destroy a thing, you never learn its worth. Vulcan has resources beyond your imagination: mental and _genetic_ resources. We’ve been inbreeding for the last two thousand years. If we want to prevent degenerative issues in the next few generations, we need to refresh our gene pool. _And_ we need to re-gain the mental powers that our ancestors have lost.”

“Is that possible at all?” t’Luin asked doubtfully.

“Those abilities are older than Surak’s teachings; much older,” tr’Khellian replied with an elegant shrug. “Vulcan scientists seem to believe that our people still possess the raw potential… it just needs to be cajoled onto the surface and trained properly. Much has been lost, some of it probably irreversible. But there is still enough to build upon. The fact that my brother and I were born with heightened senses and telepathic abilities reinforces that theory. Still, we need _proof_. If I succeed in bonding with a Vulcan mate, we will _have_ that proof.”

T’Luin shook her head, still not entirely buying the idea.

“Think about it,” tr’Khellian continued. “We could conquer them from within, secure all their knowledge of Federation science, without firing a single torpedo.”

“And if you fail?” t’Luin asked in quiet concern.

The Praetor shrugged. “There is always the option of war; our people have made it an art form, after all. But I shall not fail.”

“Of course not,” t’Luin replied blandly; expressing any more doubt about the success of her lord’s plan could have been interpreted as a sign of wavering loyalties, and _that_ equalled a death sentence. “Is there any particular task for me to perform in this game, aside from keeping you safe?”

The Praetor gave her a tight smile of cold amusement. “Do you not find that a proper enough challenge, _Erei’riov_?”

“On the contrary,” she replied. “It is the anteroom of _Areinnye_. But you usually have other, smaller tasks for me as well, _Rekkhai_ , and I would be surprised were it any different now.”

“You are getting too clever for your own good, Aidoann,” there was a slight, barely perceivable warning in tr’Khellian’s deep voice. The fact that he called her by her given name wasn’t a sign of fondness, as foreigners would have (mistakenly) thought. “People of my standing don’t like their retainers to become too shrewd as a rule. That could be dangerous.”

Any other servant would have been petrified by these words; and especially by the tone they had been spoken. But t’Luin was _Tal Shiar_ and not easily frightened. What was even more, she was completely devoted to tr’Khellian; to a degree that went way beyond fear for her own life.

“Perhaps so,” she replied calmly. “But you would consider it an insult if I had not taken any possible aspect of this game under consideration. You never suffered fools gladly. Therefore I must ask you again: what other tasks am I supposed to perform?”

“The blind engineer,” tr’Khellian said. “The technology that enables him to see, even fly the flagship of Starfleet; it can prove useful one day.”

“What for?” t’Luin asked with a finely arched eyebrow. “We do not burden ourselves with defective children; and cloned implants serve injured adults much better.”

She could prove that fact first-hand, after all.

Tr’Khellian shook his head in disapproval. “You do not see the bigger picture, do you? That… device is much more than just a seeing aid; it enables the wearer to see well beyond the narrow Terran spectrum – beyond _ours_ even. _And_ it allows direct contact to the wearer’s neural network. Think of the possibilities!”

“I see,” she said slowly, and indeed, she did. Or, at least, she began to. “It would take time to turn it into a tool of investigation, though; or into one of control.”

“That matters very little,” the Praetor waved impatiently. “We do have the time. What we do _not_ have is the technology. I want it. No matter what it costs.”

“I doubt that the Terran would sell it,” t’Luin said. “He is young and almost disgustingly idealistic.”

“In that case you’ll have to use other methods,” tr’Khellian shrugged. “Young and idealistic also means naïve; use it against him. He won’t stand a chance against you.”

That was true, of course, and t’Luin new it. The blind pilot/engineer/whatever… clearly shared the common weakness of young Terran males: that of too easily stimulated hormones. And while she’d never become intimate with a puny Terran on her own volition, she’d not hesitate to use intimacy as a tool to get what she wanted.

Or rather what tr’Khellian – _any_ s’Khellian – wanted.

“ _Mnek’nra_ ,” she replied simply, acknowledging her orders without further elaboration. There was no need for that. She understood _what_ was expected from her. _How_ she carried out her orders was left to her. “Anything else?”

Tr’Khellian nodded. “The security officer. You’ve noticed the disturbing likeness between her and t’Radaik’s personal protégée, of course.”

“Of course,” t’Luin replied. “They could be mirror images.”

“ _Au’e_ ; which is either a cosmic joke of the elements – only that I’ve never heard of the universe having a sense of humour – or there has been a temporal paradox that split the timeline shortly before t’Radaik’s pet would have been conceived. Learn everything you can about the security officer. Find out if she has been involved in any temporal shifts, anomalies… whatever.”

“And if she hasn’t?”

“Then she might be in the future.”

“In which case we might remove a serious obstacle from the way of House s’Khellian by eliminating her before that would happen,” t’Luin suggested, but tr’Khellian shook his head.

“That is by no means certain, temporal mechanics being what they are,” he said. “I would not tamper with the timeline anyway; the results could turn out a lot worse than what we’re having now.”

“Then how would learning insignificant personal data about the security officer help us in any way?” t’Luin asked, frowning.

“By understanding her, by knowing what has happened her to become the person she’s now, we will learn to understand her progeny better,” tr’Khellian explained patiently. “It is always easier to fight an adversary whose strengths and weaknesses you know and whose moves you can therefore predict with relative certainty.”

“I do not think she would reveal her tricks so easily,” t’Luin said. “She must see us as the arch-enemy of her precious Federation; and in a way we _are_.”

Tr’Khellian shook his head again. “You are taking this too literally. It is not her fighting skills I am interested in; it is her instincts, the way of her thinking, her personal imperative: what motivates her, what is driving her. What would she kill for – or die for.”

“Why would she share such profound things with me?” t’Luin asked doubtfully.

“She would not,” tr’Khellian agreed. “But you are both security officers of great responsibility. That enables you to initiate general discussions about your work. If you are subtle enough, which I know you can be if you put your mind to it, in time she will slip something, without knowing it. Little things. But they’ll help us to put together the greater picture. Do not disappoint me, Aidoann.”

Again, that barely perceivable warning, delivered by calling her by her given name.

“Have I ever disappointed you, _Rekkhai_?” she asked calmly.

“Obviously not,” he replied. “You are still alive, after all.”

T’Luin accepted that statement as it was given: for face value.

“Will you require my services tonight?” she asked instead.

“No,” tr’Khellian turned away. “I have got a great deal of thinking to do tonight; physical distractions would be counterproductive. I will meditate to clear my mind. See that I won’t be disturbed.”

“ _Ssuaj-ha_ ,” she replied; and she _did_ understand. His heightened senses were as much a burden as they were an advantage. Keeping his mental shield up for an extended length of time cost him dearly. It was easier to spend certain periods of time in seclusion to rest his mind.

He nodded, grateful for her understanding. Only a selected few knew about his gift… curse… burden… whatever one might consider it.

“Leave me,” he said. “I shall summon you, should you be needed.”

T’Luin inclined her head respectfully and left without a further word. Tr’Khellian released a long, shuddering breath, allowing himself a _siuren_ of weakness, now that not even one of his most devoted retainers could see him. He couldn’t afford to appear weak. Not even t’Luin could be trusted beyond doubt – that was the way of the _Rihannsu_. Had been ever since the Sundering. Which was why he craved the mental bond of a partner on a deeply personal level. That almost frightening level of intimacy where no lies were possible; or so he hoped.

He disrobed and put on his meditating gown. It was black, with sweeping sleeves and purple embroidery on the lapels and the hem; very similar to the ones used by Vulcan _Kolinahr_ -adepts, but this one was made of Tholian silk. Unlike most other clothes that often irritated his skin, this felt like cool water, soothing his senses.

He felt himself relax gradually as he walked to the thick mat t’Luin had laid out for him. He slowly knelt down, lowering himself onto his heels, the tips of his long fingers pressed against each other, forming an ancient symbol with the help of fingers and palms.

“Focus… discipline… balance… control…” he murmured in a low, barely audible voice. “I. Am. In. Control.“

He repeated this mantra several times… and in the next _siuren_ the familiar mental landscape opened up before his inner eye like some exotic panorama, with its enormous planes and shining pathways. The balance had been found. He _was_ in control. And there was nothing more important – or, indeed, more marvellous – than that.


End file.
